tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78406099676428681662024-03-05T16:45:21.863+04:00Tule NaarFikr-e-aashiyaan har Khizaan ki
Aashiyaan jalaa har bahaar mein.Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-23241588215445526102019-06-05T13:23:00.000+04:002019-09-12T13:27:17.954+04:00Muslim Introspection<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In the context of the horrific bombing in Sri Lanka last
month, it is vital Muslims across the world unite against violence which is
perpetuated in the name of Islam. There are episodes in recent history which
give a clear indication of the malice and hostility. Amjad Sabri -- the famous
qawal was killed in June 2016 by Pakistan Taliban. The Sabri family have sung
devotional songs using Sufi music -- essentially aiming at bridging the gap
between different faiths. Few months later 75 devotees were killed in a shrine
in Sindh Pakistan in January 2017, where a specific part of the shrine was
bombed where women were praying. More than 25 shrines have been targeted since
2005 in Pakistan. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There is a growing mislaid trend in Muslim world, to brush
everything before the birth of Islam in 7th century, under an era of ignorance
‘jahaliya’ as it is referred to commonly. The term ‘jahaliya’ has many
overtones, however, it doesn’t infer what some Muslims take as gospel truth-
that the people of the era were uncivilized and philistine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The modern charter of democracy and civil liberties is
directly copied from the Roman’s, who ruled 1000 years before Islamic
civilization was found in Arabia. The Roman Republic didn’t have a King by
lineage. The Romans rather elected senate who in turn elected a Consul- the
ruler of the time. Julius Caesar for example was a consul. Roman assemblies
would meet in the Forum arena, which is somewhere close to where the current
Colosseum exists. The point being that knowledge, learning and progress is
never an inheritance of one civilization. Rather it is an ever flowing river
from which every civilization over the course of mankind’s history has drawn
ways of improving living and set forth progress. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Islamic civilization in its apogee for about 600 years was a
sparkle of social justice, knowledge and equality. The Bayt-ul-Hiqma at
Baghdad, House of Wisdom, attracted philosophers, scientists and theologists
from many places, notably Greece. Prophet Muhammad in Arabia had set
precedence. The prisoners of wars of ‘Badr’ who could teach ten Muslims to read
and write were set free by him. The Muslim caliphs of the later Islamic times,
like the great Harun-al-Rashid, carried the tradition and invited Greek
scientists to Baghdad for teaching Muslim scholars in their universities. This
led to an era of enlightenment in Muslim world. Debates, discussions and
lectures on a wide range of religious, scientific and philosophical issues of
the day were common at the houses of worship, which also served as centres of
judicial proceedings. The role and concept of a mosque wasn’t just to pray and
deliver sermons from pulpits, encouraging youngsters to throw their lives and
critique an economic system which is the backbone of current world, as is the
norm these days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Subsequently, Europe and west in the renaissance period,
read the works of Muslim scholars, teachers and scientists. The works of
Avicenna, Ibn Arbi, al-Idrisi, Beruni, al-Khwarizmi over a course of time were
translated into French, English, and Portuguese. The ideals of European
Renaissance were directly derived from Muslim theologians and scholars. It is
fair to say that Arab science altered medieval Christendom beyond recognition.
For the first time in centuries, Europe opened its eyes to the world around it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With the decline of Muslim civilization beginning from the
16th century, West advanced in areas of science and philosophy. The clash was
obvious. However it’s very important for us to read the nuances in between. The
Islamic revivalism that began in late 19th century and carried across the next
century stressed on the tales of west’s sinister ideas, and its larger plan of
indoctrinating Muslims; driving them away from puranitical Islam- the one in
the times of Prophet Muhammad. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One just needs to step back a bit and read about the
enlightenment and differential views exhibited by Muslims in 18 and 19th
centuries before these revivalist movements even began. Since transport had
greatly advanced, the mobility of political movement with many number of
Muslims taking the pilgrimage to Mecca and technologies of printing and
telegraph carried ideas in all directions. The Muslim world wasn’t imperious to
the developments around. The civil liberties post French Revolution and
American civil war resonated ideals amongst Muslims. The Muslims in the Middle
East reconstituted thanks to anti-slavery, emancipation of women and decline of
polygamy. New ideas were not rejected, but embraced. Books were translated into
Arabic, Turkish as soon as they were published in west. Darwin’s much
controversial work Origin of Species in particular piqued a keen interest in
Lebanon. Clerical boasting was punctured readily and the picture of a greedy
ignorant mullah was visible in many journals and pamphlets.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the ways forward is to read about Prophet Muhammad in
a theological sense rather than just spiritual or religious. His life is a
living practical example of social justice and equality, abhorring violence. To
relegate Prophet’s life as an epiphany and a divine programme revealed by God,
and Islamic society being the only properly oriented society is a grave error
we make. The aftermath to this is evident and so is our knee jerk reaction. Merely
closing our eyes on the monster and committing it so as Zionist conspiracy
shall not do. This notion of natural birth right on knowledge and moral up
holdings is misplaced. World is shrinking. Societies and civilizations are
drawing new borders. Muslims must rise up to it with introspection and correct
factual reading of history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Faheem is an IT Engineer based in Dubai UAE, with interest
in travel, history and culture. <o:p></o:p><br />
This blog was carried by Quint. </div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-73815536938299459752019-05-29T13:28:00.000+04:002019-09-12T13:28:26.060+04:00Of Kashmir Summers and Tennis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The sun hung over the breast shaped clouds of purple hued
Zabarwan Mountains, shining brightly into our young eyes. Summers in Kashmir
were always a reason for joy when we were kids, stretching out beyond the edges
of our lives, the bright sun taunting us with endings, marked by long shadows
thrown in the backyard by the end of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Long days and sunny weather meant lots of outdoor activities; the usual
play games kids in 80s and 90s would indulge in— an age much before the advent
of smart phones and internet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cousin
sleepovers, was something no less than a celebration of good times. We would
visit them and they would visit us in turns. Life was good, a long joyous
vacation. We were the merry souls, playing accordion, a Joan Baez song on our
supple lips- ‘I never dreamed this summer would end.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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In addition to all the wonted stuff, summers brought with it
the tennis infatuation. From late May to early July, two of the four Grand
Slams played in the far off European cities of Paris and London: The French
Open and The Wimbledon would catch us in the turf of its magic. Over cold lemon
‘Squash’ -- stored in Kelvinator refrigerator: the Manmohan Singh economic liberty
being still a few years away and the consumerist products that we take for
granted these days, were a luxury back then - the summer evenings brought our
entire family together in the old part of the Srinagar city- a crumbling
collection of brown and grey houses, whose tattered rusty shingles of the
rooftops rose behind each other glittering in the summer evening sun. The only
channel, Doordarshan, telecasting the semi-finals and finals. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My earliest memory goes back to the 1988 Wimbledon final.
The German prodigy Steffi Graf playing a legend in her own right- Martina
Navratilova. It was a cracking final; the sighs and grunts of the players
across thousands of miles reverberated in our living room. The love for the
game and summers grew over years and was carried into the 90s. I notably
remember the ’91 summer. Gabriela Sabatini- the Argentinian sensation of the
times was a craze amongst us all. To put things in perspective, she was a
Eugenie Bouchard on Columbian cartel coke. She played a great final match and
probably had a championship point as well. However, the resilient German again
got better of her opposition. I was crestfallen. To make matters worse, my
favorite in men’s- Boris Becker lost the final to an unknown Michael Stich. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The women folk in my family- my sisters, cousins and aunts
would be engaged with men, in these stiff battles fought over clay and grass.
We all picked our favorites and supported them to tee. The gamesmanship was
evident from both genders. Contrary to the general belief, downtown Srinagar
was a very liberal alcove to grow up in, where men were not necessarily
misogynists. It had perhaps something to do with how the city had shaped over
years, its urban silhouette evident on the blurred freckles of its dwellers—an
exiguous social circle of people who clinged together because they couldn’t
stand to be alone. To imagine it now is unthinkable. It’s sad when a city loses
its intrinsic spirit and culture to the bauble of times, and while its corners
no longer smell of urban olfactory. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The slipshod poor telecast by doordarshan had little
dampening effect on our spirits. I and any cousin, who was almost my age, were
hooked to the game, picking our favorites for every tournament over 90s. Our
year was divided on lines of the four Grand Slams. We looked forward to the
coverage on Sportstar Magazine every week. Decking up our walls with posters
and cuttings. I took part in one of the contests in the magazine. I won and was
mailed a life size poster of Gabriela Sabatini, written in bold italics ‘from
Madras.’ The joy was unbridled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sadly we never got to play the real thing. The hostilities
of war had gripped Srinagar under its hideous veil. There were people on both
sides of Jhelum busy loading their guns. The city had lost its only tennis
court to war and uncertainty. In childhood you remain isolated from the
political developments. It matters little. While the city fell in perpetual
grief of conflict, we did our little improvisation. I and my cousin played our
version of tennis on a concrete yard that faced my ancestral home in downtown
Srinagar. In a way we had stepped into our make believe magical realm. A copper
wire acted as a net and our hands as racquets. We would leap in the air, serve
with our palms. Drop shots, volleys, angle lobs, we had it all. We would
re-enact entire tournaments, where he’d think himself as Edberg and me as
Becker. Our rivalries were as tense if not more, as on real courts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On one of the evenings these days, while watching French
Open, it threw me down a gale of nostalgia and the meaning it holds to my generation,
my city and my own awning memory. My city is an antique paper, but my memories
are those that time couldn’t erase. Sometimes it is all you have from a city
you so love. You roll back the clock and you extol all grief away which life
brings with it. But I have a feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone too.
A fulfilled life like a great tennis match never finishes on a Deuce!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-30670687418909166712019-04-28T13:26:00.000+04:002019-09-12T13:26:56.879+04:00Mecca- The citadel of faith<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Pilgrims en route Mecca would attend smaller fairs and
festivals before arriving at the Sanctuary for the main ceremony. A poetry
competition would be held in nearby oasis town of Taif, where poets across
Hejaz and other parts of Arabia would assemble and demonstrate their oratory
skills. Desert fables, homages to Gods and odes to mistresses were narrated in
huge gatherings. The best poem would be mounted on the Kaaba. After the contest
the poets would join other pilgrims— a swarm of shaman dancers dancing in
trance, some sorcerers juggling their skills, enchanters rolling their bodies
along the dusty paths leading to Kaaba; the festive liturgy running till late
in the night —the fire lighting up the horizons of Mecca and its surroundings.
The markets would be buzz with Arabian dyes, perfumes and rugs from far off
Nabatean lands. Musicians with their tambourines loose hair flying in wreath
would fill the tiny alleys of Mecca. Heretics perched on nooks and corners of
Meccan markets mumbling within. The city abuzz with life and trade. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mecca has a long history. Gibbon in his seminal work
‘Decline and Fall of Roman Empire’ mentions how Greeks knew about Kaaba. Greek
historians have claimed to write about a temple in Arabia which is sacred to
Aribis- the desert dwellers- a name Greeks gave to the people of Arabia. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mecca has had numerous names. The earliest known name is the
biblical ‘Baca’.Baca in Arabic transforms to ‘lack of stream’. Indeed Mecca has
always been a dry place.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jurham was a tribe into whom Prophet Abraham’s son Ishmael
had married into. Over the years after prophet Ishmael ,Jurhams controlled
Mecca and the sanctuary. This had continued for few centuries, before Khuza
another tribe took over Kaaba. It is in the reign of Khuza, Amr of Luhayy that
paganism began in Kaaba. It began when Amr received a deity of Hubal as a gift.
He ordered to place the deity in the Kaaba. Other families also proceeded to
place their idols in the Kaaba including the Arab pantheon and three daughters
of God: al Lat, Manat and al-Uzzat. This was around at the beginning of
Christian era. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Consequently after next 400-500 years, in 5th century AD,
Quraysh — a tribe of Ishmael’s descendants come into the picture. Zayd bin
Kilab who was fondly called as Qusayy ‘the little stranger’ married into an
elite Khoza family in Mecca and took over its reins. He was very intelligent
and entire Mecca had grown fond of him. Qusayy regarded himself as the direct
descendent of Ishmael and as such someone who was born to look after Kaaba.
Qusayy is also regarded to have re-discovered the Zam Zam well, after being in
oblivion for centuries. Qusayy was the direct forefather of a man who in
another hundred years was to change the destiny of Meccans and entire Hejaz.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The journey to Mecca and Haj is compulsory to all Muslims.
Religious obligation aside, one can find a numerous reasoning logic for such an
arduous pillar of faith. For how I see it, the main pilgrimage- Haj or the
lesser pilgrimage- Umrah, is meant to instil travel bug in Muslims. To travel
across thousands of kilometres and experience the diversity of God’s creation
in His own house. Mecca is probably the first city every Muslim hears of. Right
from our childhood it is one city and place that finds a way into our
consciousness. The sight of cuboid swathed in a black cloth is imprinted in our
minds. What it exactly meant was not known to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Over the years I’ve carried my battles with faith and
questions that surround me. By no means being someone very religious. The inner
strife has always followed me in matters of faith and belief. Amongst this was
the many time retold rundown which I had somehow convinced myself of. The
ostentatiousness craze led by Saudi government had defiled the value of Kaaba.
I believed the spiritual sacredness no longer exists in Mecca. I couldn’t
understand. Early this month when I visited Mecca on account of Umrah, I
carried these premonitions and biases with me. I performed my first Umrah late
into the night when we first reached Mecca. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was largely unfazed, still grappling with scepticism. What
brings a sea of men and women to this landscape, which is not only harsh but
unwelcoming too? The Hejaz mountains which surround Kaaba have the harshest
terrain; sharp knife edged rocky surface. In course of my time at Mecca I
realized, Kaaba gives you what you bring to it. My subsequent trips to Kaaba
and Haram over the next few days did something to me. What exactly, I’m not
sure. Perhaps, it is those in explainable feelings that have no physical
reality to it. Standing tall one afternoon, under bright mid Arabian sun, in
front of this cuboid, which has been there at that place since thousands of
years, the sweat and belief of Prophets mixed in its foundation, the stillness
of hot smudgy air around it broken by a pigeon flight, the circumambulating
devotees chanting holy verses, in those tiny fleeting seconds Kaaba revealed
itself to me. The magic under its sanctuary was well and truly over me. The
noor of an omnipresent God. HE lights it up in the heart of his devotee, and
what is unseen is disclosed. The nothingness of God’s radiance and the soul of
a pilgrim are alight. HE and you become ONE.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-16216846072922808012018-12-23T13:30:00.000+04:002019-09-12T13:30:42.537+04:00The half lies of Koshur Identity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We need a psychological home as much as we need a physical
one. A sort of a refuge where we go back, refuted by the world of
allegiance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Home is a place very special
to Humans. Nothing in the world can replace it. It atones to our
vulnerabilities. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Recently a good number of netizens took to social media, displaying
their affiliation towards Kashmiri identity. Apparently, phiran forms a large
part of it. This was a reaction to some government advisory that phiran must
not be allowed in offices. While everyone is free and entitled to their
opinion, however, I found the reactions very hallow and reeking of hypocrisy.
In Kashmir, everybody knows each other. It’s a small place and the society is
closely knit. We rarely marry outside our mores. The inter mixing with rest of
the cultures of sub-continent was almost neglible till very recent. However, a
lot of those things are changing. In the age of internet and technology one can
choose a partner by just a click. Yes, tinder does that! A lot Kashmiris are
travelling outside, exposing themselves to a whole lot of cultures. While all
of this is fine, it becomes very necessary that in the process we don’t lose
our essential character. So what is that character? What is it that netizens
were displaying their anguish against? A piece of cloak that you wear and click
selfies in? And this by those people who abhor when their children speak in
Koshur –regarding the language downright lowly. This tribe of poor self-esteem
walking strivers is dime a dozen in Kashmir and they give two hoots to your
culture and identity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Hypocrisy is being double faced. While all the hoopla goes
on for my identity and my Kashmir- whatever that means, the situation on the
ground is glaringly something else. Our indifference to our civic sensibilities
is pathetic to say the least. There is zero accountability. Illegal
construction by real estate mafia is rampant. Most of the hotels in ‘world
famous’ Gulmarg and Pahalgam have flouted rules, illegally occupying forest
land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Footpaths are used for everything
else but walking. Anyone in power seems unapproachable. Bullying of the
marginalized is order of the day. The honest is mocked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The system is so effing against the common
man. Yet all of it is accepted. Corruption is so rooted that it has become a
system. As long as you don’t come in my way, I don’t give a fig! That’s the
attitude. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m a downtowner. Though we shifted to city suburbs in mid
90s, yet the downtown boy in me never left me. I usually walk over through its
tiny labyrinth alleys, when I visit home in summers, finding a long gone memory
in some alcove of my mind. It’s the only place where I feel I have arrived. All
of this may be gone though. The vandalism of our architecture is everywhere.
The art deco old is giving way to the brash glassy new and nothing is being
done to protect it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you visit any European city, the care and effort to
maintain the architecture of a city is so visible. The new is given a way, but
not at the expense of the old. There is a concerned effort made to stick to
their identities. You can destroy a city and its people easily by obliterating
its architecture. Take the old city out of Srinagar, what remains is a ghost
city. Ugly and morose. That’s because the sophistication and richness lays
inside the realms of our old houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their features being so distinct if one walks along the Nallamar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wooden porch on the first or second floor;
red oxidized floors; baroque carving on windows; thin brown bricks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air smelling of its people who lived for
hundreds of years. Along the walls that I walk in my ancestral home, that I
touch and feel, I find the souls of my ancestors. Their sounds echo in the
oxidized floors. It is said everyone must leave something behind when they
die:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A child, a book, a house, a planted
garden. Something that your hand touched so that the soul has somewhere to go
when you die, when people look at that tree or house or garden. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I wonder what I would leave behind for my son, to know his
identity. Certainly must be more than a phiran!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-5035391153514069752018-08-08T13:31:00.000+04:002019-09-12T13:32:18.474+04:00Books, Grandfather and Life Lessons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The Japanese literary great
Haruki Murakami said, 'If you only read the books that everyone else is
reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.' Books are that axe
which titillate one's soul. But how does one go about reading the right kind of
books?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What got me writing about this
was when I posted some pictures from my library on social media. The idea was
to share my personal journey; which necessarily a potential bibliophile may not
follow. I've always believed reading is your own personal jaunt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As adults we can encourage and suggest
especially to youngsters what books to read. That is how and where I picked my love
for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Each Sunday without fail my
grandfather’s cousin and bosom buddy Khwaja Ali Buchh would drop in at our
place, in his crisp white kurtas: a man of impeccable honor and love for books.
What would transpire in next few hours would absolutely enthrall the curious kid
in me. From Babur’s battle at Panipat to Jinnah’s jibe at Molvi Yusuf Shah,
they discussed everything. They would often exchange books and though they had
aged, the brothers retained their penchant for book reading. I remember one of
the earliest books that they suggested to me was ‘Kashmir towards Insurgency’
by Balraj Puri. A thin book which awakened me to the complex nitty gritty of
Kashmir issue. In addition my grandfather insisted that I and my sisters read
everything. At one time we were subscribing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>eight to ten magazines: Reader’s digest, India Today, Frontline,
Sportstar, Woman’s era, Femina. You name it. <br />
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Abba’s idea was to cultivate the habit of reading in us. Igniting the curiosity
bulb in us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, I see the wisdom in it
now. Books must essentially be read for pleasure. If a book, however popular it
may be, fails to strike with you, just don’t read it. Put it on your shelf.
Never be stuck with it. There are so many books out there to be read and
learned from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">As the saying in sufis goes,
‘what you seek, seeks you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my
adolescence days, like any other youth, I had my existential crisis. There were
far too many questions in my mind. And unfortunately my pillar of strength my
grandfather was no more there to guide me. While aimlessly travelling in south
India, I met Thimma, a 45-50 year old Brahmin, introduced by my friend. Thimma
owned a farm house on the foothills of Coorg district and had a married a
widow. He was a rebel in a family of illustrious blood line. His grandfather was
the first surgeon in Coorg and he proudly displayed his accreditations in his
farm house. We spend the night talking about love, wars, philosophy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The next morning while
handing over my morning cup of tea, Thimma passed on a worn out book to me. Its
pages were loose, murky yellow and smelled exactly how old books do. Still
sleepy, I turned its pages and I started reading it. Not realizing I had
already read much of it, I turned to its cover and looked for the title – it
read- The Wisdom of Kahlil Gibran. I remember standing up and hugging Thimma,
who was looking over me. He wryly passed that smile he owned and told me he
knew, I would like it. The book was passed onto him by his grandfather. In a
matter of time, frozen on its shackles, I remembered my own grandfather. Of the
life lessons he taught me. Of being compassionate. Honest to oneself. And more
importantly, keeping myself open to new ideas and thought process. It was his
blessings perhaps that I found a teacher in Kahlil Gibran. Long after he was gone,
he left an anchor for me. Reading ensures to us that we are not alone and
protect us from having a closed mind. An open mind is a sea of possibilities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">So, primarily as adults it’s
our responsibility to create that atmosphere at our homes, from which our
children learn. Children, as it is, are great learners. They pick from us what
we do. Conscious and sub consciously. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was lucky to have a grandfather who created this atmosphere around us. We must
pledge to do the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-40559670361370152192018-03-17T13:29:00.000+04:002019-09-12T13:29:36.498+04:00Srinagar- Our Altar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If a painter is to paint Srinagar of current times, as for
instance so many 19th century Renaissance era painters painted European cities
in- the beautiful promenades of Paris , city squares of Florence and majestic
Roman boulevards, the scenes wouldn’t be smooth or intimate. Instead there
would be constant jostling for space on traffic lights. Conspicuous drivers
looking right and left, as if everyone is scheming against them. We worry that
our space would be snatched from us. Few meters away there would be a scuffle
over a trivial matter, and entire traffic would come to a halt. Choicest of
invectives swirl in our already smoke polluted air; arms swindling in apparent
rage. A slump of a humans begging on your wind shield. The cacophony would be
mindless and inhuman. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A friend of mine once told me that he a drove a Israeli
backpacker around in his car. The young traveller was very disturbed and told
him that though they had holocaust, but they have put it behind them. ‘Why does
everyone here feel like they are being left behind’, which he said wasn’t the
case when he had last travelled to Vale with his parents in late 80s. What
really has occurred with Srinagar that it looks nothing like it did? In her
present state she seems like a disfigured wretched old woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One may imagine what all this says about us? In the midst of
an ugly war that the city is gripped in, we tend to overlook such
introspections. That sadly is the reality about war. It numbs you. But reality,
of war gripped cities too, as it goes, is never linear. It is multi layered,
and it has many hues to it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Srinagar has become a city of privileges. If you have
contacts with the right people, anything can be done. Pay a bribe and get your
work done. There are people who work in Middle East for years, holding on to
their government jobs back home, utilizing the tactic of north Indian word to
it- jugaad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is very common these days in Srinagar, to see people
driving cars much more expensive than they can afford. It is kind of an
announcement from them that they have arrived. Where? I really don’t have an
idea. The impact of such vulgarism is visible. There are countless rash driving
cases. Children barely the age of 10, drive expensive cars, in absolutely no
parenting guidance. In fact, parents don’t wish to leave their child behind in
the race. More is better. The nouveau rich class especially in their quest to
show off their newly acquired riches, are creating ugly ghosts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are getting Punjabi-fied in that sense.
The annoying fixation with Punjabi culture and ethos is breaking our own
fragile traditions and values. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As for an expat like me who visits home, once every year in
summers, the apparent change is glaring and disturbing. Being away from all
this, gives to someone like me an advantage. Sometimes when we are in the
middle of madness; we become immune to it. With time the abhorred becomes
acceptable. That’s how human mind works. Adaptability isn’t always good. <o:p></o:p></div>
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However, there is the other side of being in exile-
unimposed, unintentional it may be, but real all the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the listlessness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The inchoate grief it holds in itself. The
hollow feeling of never having arrived in the adopted city. The understanding
that the road I take every day for work, has no idea about my strife. It is as
alien, as it was, the first time I drove over it. At times it’s even difficult
to articulate it. It strikes in odd situations. Mostly during morning showers,
when the inkling of reality hits: being a nobody in this place, I am trying to
call home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But then trips back home are far less satisfying. There is
very little left of what I remember as home. Things have changed. Last year I
attended a wedding of a friend. There was Punjabi music played there and
Bhangra in the tent. It was nothing less than a cultural shock for me. Which is
why at times I find nothing of myself in Srinagar; which leaves me perplexed.
Is that what you call being homeless? Is that the fate of living in exile? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Everything though is not lost. And I’m not merely stating it
for being positive and not brushing everything aside as lost. We just need to
find our way back. With time we have not moved forward. What was once a robust
cosmopolitan city has been reduced to a poor Delhi cousin. Srinagar, ironic as
it may sound to those who don’t know, was a city where display of wealth was
regarded as a vice. People believed in living frugally. That meant the poor
never felt left behind. There was a dignity in every life: rich or poor. The
parvenu displays of wealth that stink like our many open drains, had no takers.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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We must understand, our values and culture are very
different to Punjab. In our uniqueness, lies our strength. A soulless city
creates soulless people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope we
realize it. For if we don’t, the history definitely shall condemn us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“For those who are lost, there will always be cities that
feel like home.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope, I can find back that Srinagar.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-82424549715842354222018-02-15T10:22:00.002+04:002019-09-12T13:25:49.779+04:00The Ashes Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDSw6xNW9nKIpp-1_RjYkbg5CtIITgv5MPNP1fER3Cwjh5m7Y9Zzfa2he_a5aGqQKKIddMfmvKUwT4aREQSjpI4o9L-qO_F8ak_Xkz_xlmBoSVhqOrDp7zy1SjeWzMrIzWNeTmU0wJo5g/s1600/Aus_team_1892_SCG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="1400" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDSw6xNW9nKIpp-1_RjYkbg5CtIITgv5MPNP1fER3Cwjh5m7Y9Zzfa2he_a5aGqQKKIddMfmvKUwT4aREQSjpI4o9L-qO_F8ak_Xkz_xlmBoSVhqOrDp7zy1SjeWzMrIzWNeTmU0wJo5g/s320/Aus_team_1892_SCG.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Australian Ashes squad, 1892.</td></tr>
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There are some sporting rivalries that go beyond the realm
of the sport and the sportsmen. They take a place in posterity.
England-Argentina in soccer, for example. Maradona's one genius head, and one
godly work, gave it an altogether different meaning. Remember Mexico '86?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then there was Bjorn Borg and McEnroe fighting it out on
French clay and English grass. Fans sighed. The rockstar Borg had females
bating. The headband and sweaty forearms had them swooning all over. McEnroe
had a temper and personality. Contrasting styles, great tennis for fans. The
aficionados called the rivalry 'Fire and Ice'.<o:p></o:p></div>
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India- Pakistan in cricket has had its moments. But, it is
marred by politics. The rivalry, as I see it, is more political than sporting.
For a reason or the other, cricket often takes a backseat. The pressure shows
on players and it affects their performance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then there is the mother of them all – The Ashes. Tradition,
stories, enmity, folklore, you name it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On the eve of the 1992 World Cup final held in Australia,
Australian Cricket Board (ACB) threw a dinner party for the finalists England
and Pakistan that was also graced by a host of dignitaries other than
cricketers. God knows what got into the mind of the organizers as
they impersonated the Queen through a renowned Australian comedian Gerry
Connolly. In what has become a famous walk out, Ian Botham, arguably England’s
greatest cricketer and all-rounder, stormed out of the party, visibly angry and
scathing out at the Australian press.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m very proud of my history and culture. You guys wouldn’t
know about it obviously, you’ve none of it,” yelled Beefy. The jibe, directed
to hit where it hurts the most, underscores the intensity of the uneasy
relationship and hardcore rivalry between the two cricketing nations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is something there when these two countries meet. On a
first day of the first test at Edgbaston or Brisbane, the atmosphere is
electric, the spectators are charged, the buzz is in the air. Everything else
is secondary; cricket is all that matters. A bouncer is hurled, a hook is
returned, a menacing glare follows. The Barmy army sings ‘The Ashes are coming
home’. The Aussie sledging is raised to a new level.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The coveted tiny urn for which the two countries rough it
out carries the weight of a century and more; of sweat and squabs; of long sea
voyages in the early 20th century; of Bodyline and Jardine; of Bradman and Jim
Laker; of Botham at Headingley and Warne at Old Trafford. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The story goes back a century and a quarter. In a mock
obituary carried by a British newspaper in 1877 after Australia’s victory at
The Oval, it stated that the English cricket died, body will be cremated and
the ashes will be taken to Australia. And the legend of The Ashes was thus
born.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The avowed foes have met in many epic battles since. When
the English steamship docked on Australian shores in the winter of 1932-33, the
press was all over the unstoppable Don Bradman who had averaged 130 in the
previous Ashes. England were under pressure. However, Douglas Jardine, their
captain, born in the British Raj of India had a plan. His tactics included
Larwood, who is said to have never bowled a wide in his career, to bowl fast on
the rib cage, with seven fielders on the leg side. It worked; England regained
The Ashes. Wisden calls it the most unpleasant series. On one occasion,
Australian captain Bill Woodfull was left down on the ground after being struck
just above the heart by a Larwood bouncer. The Australian crowd booed. That
wouldn’t change much in the cold and calculating Jardine. Moments later, he
called out to Larwood - "Well bowled Harold" - and set the fielders
again in the hated Bodyline formation. Police had to be deployed on the
boundary. The Australian captain next day retorted angrily: “There are two
teams out there. One is trying to play cricket and the other is not.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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How zealously the Aussie spectators had started hating
Jardine is underlined by a small incident that happened when the England
captain was at the crease during the fifth test at Sydney, England about to
complete a 4-1 series win. When the play stopped for a drinks break, Australian
captain was about to hand over a bottle of water to Jardine when a spectator
yelled out to him: “Don’t give the bastard a drink. Let him die of thirst.”
Even the stoic Jardine enjoyed that little moment and recalled later that “it
was one of the few humourous remarks which we were privileged to hear on this
tour.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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At the height of Vietnam War in the 60s, a young US marine
James Stockdale was captured by the Viet Cong and sent to the infamous Hanoi
torture centre. He was interrogated, beaten and tortured. Stockdale spent 7
years in the prison. He could have easily avoided abuse by cozying up to his
tormentors somewhat. An occasional anti-American statement and they would have
treated him like any other ordinary inmate. Yet it never crossed his mind. He
willingly gave himself up. As he later explained, it was the only way he could
maintain self-respect. He didn’t do it for the love of his country. Nor was it
about the war. It was purely about not breaking down inside. He did it solely
for himself. Sometimes, I wonder how many English and Australian players
think this way when it comes to Ashes: of not breaking down, for there is so
much at stake for both England and Australia. A part of that credit must also
go to the writers, who have woven remarkable stories around The Ashes. Cricket
is one of those few sports that give scope for prolific writing and the likes
of Neville Cardus, CLR James, Mike Coward, Peter Roebuck have given it a
gourmet treatment for the reading aficionados.<br />
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My first brush with The Ashes was in ’93 when Allan Border’s side routed an
insipid England led by the Groucho mustachioed Graham Gooch. England, in those
days of misery, were used to frequently changing their playing XI (in the
previous Ashes of ’89, English selectors led by Ted Dexter had used as many as
29 players throughout the series).<o:p></o:p></div>
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From that bright summer of Kashmir, the romanticism of Ashes
stuck to me forever. With the internet still a good decade away, those days the
only means of keeping track of the series was through Times of India sports
page, which would arrive in the afternoons, and the weekly Sportstar magazine
that I read with great enthusiasm - the tour diaries of Mike Coward in
particular.<br />
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In the following winter, with enough time to kill during the winter school break,
my cousin brought some VHS cassettes from his Delhi trip for me, sensing my
love for the game. Two of those cassettes included ‘That Man Botham’ and
‘Richie Benaud Presents’. One of the most visible memories from it remains
Richie Benaud, in his typical soft tone, speaking about the 1974/75 Ashes
played in Australia. Those were the times when young people around the world
had started experimenting with LSD, free sex and personal freedom. Shackles
were breaking. Students rose up in Paris one morning with placards of
revolution. Cricket, the game of nobles was finding its hippie fad too, ready
to break the norms. Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, when they ran fast, sending
bullets down to the batsmen at the other end, were egged on by the aggressive
Aussie spectators. Cricket was no more a gentleman’s game! And Australia
were led by a certain Ian Chappell who believed in granting the opposition no
quarter. He played tough cricket and led from the front.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Those days, any footage from Australia used to be a rarity.
I remember being totally mesmerized by the whole atmosphere. Sunny Australian
summers, sun kissed bodies, bouncy pitches, good coverage and sea gulls, plus
some great aggressive cricket.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_DIEIoITznA0TAV4aXZOz84EzL2rKtKo2sMNO1iZH9opyGrdBhVeB0OCFj6JWO_azt-m0gzUHjpqrke3kTLcfaDtnGKbZUOfwkj8ohbx_hVKU8uZT9ek_utR_rWs_uSZkBVpVq7UhbGq/s1600/Tony+Greig+fend+off+a+Thomson+bouncer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="459" data-original-width="670" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_DIEIoITznA0TAV4aXZOz84EzL2rKtKo2sMNO1iZH9opyGrdBhVeB0OCFj6JWO_azt-m0gzUHjpqrke3kTLcfaDtnGKbZUOfwkj8ohbx_hVKU8uZT9ek_utR_rWs_uSZkBVpVq7UhbGq/s200/Tony+Greig+fend+off+a+Thomson+bouncer.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tony Greig fends off a Thomson snorter, Gabba 1974</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw8fZlqaqvTUIoZ-P2BWpCbfuPnoSnhGspRqFlHSVIIEp_mkVNDePJnHu8xGaIrDMd5bspBRxllc-mxLzKYwzHPZP_nd7X7MOavc1l6pe-b1j_IRvW9MoPt_yvxYD4QU6L0qUnyclxB5bG/s1600/John-Edrich-Sydney-1975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="955" data-original-width="1400" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw8fZlqaqvTUIoZ-P2BWpCbfuPnoSnhGspRqFlHSVIIEp_mkVNDePJnHu8xGaIrDMd5bspBRxllc-mxLzKYwzHPZP_nd7X7MOavc1l6pe-b1j_IRvW9MoPt_yvxYD4QU6L0qUnyclxB5bG/s200/John-Edrich-Sydney-1975.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Edrich is brought down by a Lillee bouncer</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFLAqE2fsblEcoHfAtmbhGKhsvW_Z5HEV-zNMvIHSt9mQFA_W1c2oPo_SpPu933kBWTvKKiMACUFzYu9NG_ImS9YANXOu5VOOjwZ8Q99DArye3BCnJzrApT2Kx32Bziaxk3pR1QupAYWB/s1600/Christpher+Jenkins+on+Ashes+1974_75.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="501" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFLAqE2fsblEcoHfAtmbhGKhsvW_Z5HEV-zNMvIHSt9mQFA_W1c2oPo_SpPu933kBWTvKKiMACUFzYu9NG_ImS9YANXOu5VOOjwZ8Q99DArye3BCnJzrApT2Kx32Bziaxk3pR1QupAYWB/s400/Christpher+Jenkins+on+Ashes+1974_75.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BBC correspondent, Christopher Jenkins on 1974/75 Ashes.</td></tr>
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Usually, fast bowling is associated with West Indian quicks
of the 70s and the 80s, that famous pace battery. However, the pioneers were
Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, and 74/75 Ashes was their baby. Their fast
bowling was frighteningly quick and England by the end of it were bruised and
battered - both physically and psychologically. Lilliee and Thomson took 25 and
33 wickets respectively. ‘I thought stuff that stiff upper lip crap.
Let’s see how stiff it is when it’s split’, Jeff Thomson had said in a post-match
press conference. England were so plagued by injuries that they needed
reinforcements from England - one of them the 41 year old Colin Cowdrey. In
what may be called a futile exercise in the midst of a bloody war, Cowdrey’s
inclusion had little impact on the series. Australia trounced England 3-1. Post
series, writer and historian Gideon Haigh wrote about the fearsome duo. “Lillee
and Thomson remain a combination to conjure with, as sinister in England as
Burke and Hare, or Bismarck and Tirpitz.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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With Packer’s circus taking over the game in the late 70s,
cricket in England was losing its popularity, until that man Botham propped up
in one English summer, producing a feat that remains unparalleled. Not
surprisingly, the ’81 Ashes came to be known as the Botham’s Ashes. The ‘81
story is stuff of legends and plots that seems like a carefully crafted Erich
Segal fiction.<o:p></o:p></div>
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England, captained by a young 24-year old Botham, were 1-0
down when the third test at Headingley began. Beefy relinquished his captaincy
after the second test. His form had dropped and according to David Gower when
Beefy was out for naught in the second test at Lord's, almost sealing his fate
as captain, even a hair strand dropping would have broken the silence that
descended in the England dressing room. English cricket had plummeted to a low.
Mike Brearley, the 38-year old professor of philosophy, was appointed
as the captain for the third test. England’s fortunes however didn’t seem to be
turning. They were annihilated in the first innings and asked to follow on. At
130/7 with still some hundred runs short of making Aussies bat again, in a
remarkable turnaround and back to the walls blitzkrieg, Botham and Graham
Dilley added 130 odd for the 8th wicket. Bouncers from Lillee and co.
were smashed by the mercurial Botham to all corners on a cold July English
afternoon with utter disdain. But even after such spectacular display, all
Australia required was 130 to win on the final day. By now clouds had
given way to bright luminous sunshine. When Australia looked well on
course at 56/1, Mike Brearley in one stroke of brilliant astuteness changed Bob
Willis' end and asked him to bowl down the hill. Result: Australia bowled out
for 111. England had fashioned one of the most remarkable come-from-behind
victories in cricketing history. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With the momentum and impetus well rooted with the English,
they went on to win the next test at Edgbaston where Australia, yet again,
failed to chase a low target. For now it was Botham's turn to light up the
magic with the red cherry. In a hostile spell of fast bowling, Beefy returned
with figures of 5 for 1 and England went on to win the test by 29
runs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the fifth test at Old Trafford, Botham hit a sparkling
century. Studded with marvelous square drives and swaggered hooks,
the flamboyant all-rounder brought the Manchester crowd to its feet with a
quicker than run-a-ball century. England won the test by 103 runs. The final
test at The Oval was a draw and England regained The Ashes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The 1981 Ashes gave Britain its first sporting hero since
Bobby Charlton in Ian Terence Botham. Australian captain Kim Hughes’ remarks
post series perhaps described their frustration aptly: “This series will be
remembered in a hundred years. Unfortunately!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Beefy’s popularity skyrocketed to the extent that he was
called as the fifth Beatle. It wasn’t just his game, but his looks and his
exploits off the field too that often kept him in the news. On one occasion, it
is said that Beefy made such passionate love to a Barbadian Miss World that the
goddamn bed cracked - perhaps, only in some carnal justice. This escapade
became folklore and made its way into many Beefy stories.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKy8F-K30p86zS_MW2uWd4e7re-EyYDXQfscPpOnpbXf_OZ8OWEEZbQZpcbv8ZRatcANYuUUseroSJhxwE7oPzZ8L8vQkSzscXxubMfWyFt2DUDwUA_Glfne3R8-ypzB_TYoZkiQYx1-XS/s1600/Beefy-1981.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="1400" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKy8F-K30p86zS_MW2uWd4e7re-EyYDXQfscPpOnpbXf_OZ8OWEEZbQZpcbv8ZRatcANYuUUseroSJhxwE7oPzZ8L8vQkSzscXxubMfWyFt2DUDwUA_Glfne3R8-ypzB_TYoZkiQYx1-XS/s200/Beefy-1981.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ian Botham on that June 1981 Headingley afternoon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSecr_PKXCYVkScRpUbsyYyDdtN6Lc_1FBdEWZH7g80vLPw9Bgruiknaut5skzvvat1K6nlWLTa5XxVLJxos6dsBGbONKc7qhOTZWx-V5OcXuNsDflPeur8uAbUSXTVrCHg6bgYq6ldol6/s1600/Headingley+1981.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="900" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSecr_PKXCYVkScRpUbsyYyDdtN6Lc_1FBdEWZH7g80vLPw9Bgruiknaut5skzvvat1K6nlWLTa5XxVLJxos6dsBGbONKc7qhOTZWx-V5OcXuNsDflPeur8uAbUSXTVrCHg6bgYq6ldol6/s200/Headingley+1981.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob Willis hits Rod Marsh on the head, Headingley '81.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNxOAplqJ__E6YyJuqSfypWntxrpyb_GmQM9gWjAo_Eol9-WrlxD4eszfDQDF486Vk82mkxuvy-no6fmItU0b-qXSSjAKulpcBtVyrCOFrhhJIox28kk0SkohAwPx91YWCkxoVaYLMMJg/s1600/image1+%252816%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNxOAplqJ__E6YyJuqSfypWntxrpyb_GmQM9gWjAo_Eol9-WrlxD4eszfDQDF486Vk82mkxuvy-no6fmItU0b-qXSSjAKulpcBtVyrCOFrhhJIox28kk0SkohAwPx91YWCkxoVaYLMMJg/s200/image1+%252816%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iconic moment. Mike Brearley tosses the ball to Bob Willis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In the subsequent years, England maintained its dominance. However, the famous
’89 series when Allan Border’s side, dismissed by the English press as the
weakest to have toured England, was to change it. England led by David Gower
lost The Ashes 4-0. After the series ended, Allan Border explained how he, very
clearly, asked his side not to be friendly with the opposition. Gower called
Border’s behaviour strange. They were good friends off the field, however,
cometh the test match, at toss, Border would just shake hands with a glum
face, without exchanging any pleasantries, and run back to the pavilion. This
was a mind game and a preparation to own the rivals and it seemed to work. Such
gamesmanship!<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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While English cricket in the 90s fell from one low to
another, Australia produced some champion players in that era, with Shane
Warne’s first Ashes delivery called as the ball of the century. That classic
leg spinner’s dismissal: ball pitching outside leg and clipping the left bail.
How that ball missed the girth of an oversized Mike Gatting is still beyond me.
But it was another addition to The Ashes tales.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2N7kaEEn1yubPYP24pXnq-u4oFqfio1FYmPl9B3BC0dPATWU-0bgBBARt8P9XoArCPmNy50u7RlRb5NCBlw-kGJS3ffzXJd7DlOZN6zLPBCmFohyJ7dup9cm9wk9LE8UA6u5C0CDBw-lr/s1600/Warne%2527s+ball+of+the+century%252C+Old+Trafford+June+1993.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="931" data-original-width="1400" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2N7kaEEn1yubPYP24pXnq-u4oFqfio1FYmPl9B3BC0dPATWU-0bgBBARt8P9XoArCPmNy50u7RlRb5NCBlw-kGJS3ffzXJd7DlOZN6zLPBCmFohyJ7dup9cm9wk9LE8UA6u5C0CDBw-lr/s400/Warne%2527s+ball+of+the+century%252C+Old+Trafford+June+1993.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warne's ball of the century, Old Trafford, 1993.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In a cutthroat battle like this, very minute details can
catch astronomical proportions. Ask Nasser Hussain. There have been volumes
written on his decision to ask Australia to bat, after winning the toss at
Gabba in 2002. Scorecard at the end of 1<sup>st</sup> day read: Australia
364/2. Derek Pringle, former England medium pacer and now a well-known
broadcaster wrote: “In earlier times, inserting the opposition and seeing them
finish the day on 364/2 would have been enough for a captain to summon his
faithful hound, light a last cigarette and load a single bullet into the
revolver.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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While there have been a number of Ashes series that are
remembered for the quality of cricket and the intensity with which they were
played, the 2005 Ashes stands out as nothing before or after it – perhaps aptly
viewed as the greatest Ashes of all time. Apart from top notch cricket and
closely fought battles, it was so unpredictable and tense with innumerable
moments of drama and suspense. It was also an anticlimax in that nobody expected
England to even draw the series, let alone win it. England were so used to
humiliation at the hands of the Aussie invincible over the last decade and a
half that nobody in England or Australia, or anywhere else on planet Earth
where The Ashes was followed, gave England any chance. But then, what we
witnessed was an unexpected treat. There is always something special about the
underdog turning the tables on the mightier opposition.<o:p></o:p></div>
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From 1986-87 onwards until this series, England couldn’t
manage a single series win, most of the times rolled over by the Aussie
juggernaut. But not now! A determined England side led by Michael Vaughan was
intent on breaking this long string of defeats and break it did. It was a great
team effort by the English, but two superstars, Kevin Petersen and Andrew
Flintoff shone brighter than the rest and taking the attack to the opposition
beat the mighty Aussies at their own game. The 2005 Ashes changed the
subsequent results that used to be so heavily lopsided in favour of Australia
over the last fifteen years. England went on to win the 2009, 2010-11, 2013 and
2015 Ashes. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbimbMK3rnq9vVBUMZr8t5Bl8rhtDMgh3179dRa62pFO7-EsRaSSPVqpcR-XO5n2XJ58KMSkdF7cUgDytL008MSp0x8wIiKPxZEwzA-AH7cj0bE0K5uLvQGDKJ9Hu3x1hB_pJui1eMkefJ/s1600/Ashes-2005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="960" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbimbMK3rnq9vVBUMZr8t5Bl8rhtDMgh3179dRa62pFO7-EsRaSSPVqpcR-XO5n2XJ58KMSkdF7cUgDytL008MSp0x8wIiKPxZEwzA-AH7cj0bE0K5uLvQGDKJ9Hu3x1hB_pJui1eMkefJ/s320/Ashes-2005.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ashes were coming back after 18 long years. The triumphant English side at The Oval 2005.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In moments of my procrastination, which by the way are
frequent, I picture my best experiences. A ten-year cruise through Caribbean or
backpacking in the tropical forests of Brazil or drive in a 1965 Chevy through
the ochre landscape of south Spain or an Ashes test at Lord’s. And if a
dazzling fairy like the ones in Aesop fables asks me to choose one from this
wish list, I would hands down choose the last one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Artists go to Italy to pay homage to the great masters like
Raphael and Michelangelo, as pilgrims go to Jerusalem and Mecca, or students in
the middle ages went to pontiffs and chief seats of learning where science and
philosophy had made a mark. Orientalists in 18<sup>th</sup> and 19<sup>th</sup> centuries
travelled far in search of exotic east. I think the romanticism of a puritan
Ashes fan belongs to such mystical realms.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-22580698507340824322017-11-14T10:13:00.000+04:002018-02-15T10:14:06.963+04:00Nehru - a revisit.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 108.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Jawahar Lal
Nehru- a revisit<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />I’m making a clear disclosure at the beginning of this
writing: this is not a view of Jawahar Lal Nehru, India’s first prime minister
from a myopic field of Kashmiri political scene or conflict per se. The world
unfortunately, as we view, does not run around Kashmir. Pandit Nehru had its
flaws but in the current fad of running him down, I find it imperative for us
to look back at JLN in a comprehensive manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On a personal level, which is from where I would like to
begin, my love affair with Nehruvian ideas was passed onto me by Abba -- my
late grandfather. A liberal-Nehruvian- socialist whose crucial injunctions in
my growing up years had a profound effect on how I saw the world around me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /><br />Pandit Nehru has many critics and rightly so. He was no
saint. He erred. One of the biggest blots on his political sleeve is the dismissal
of an elected communist government in Kerala in 1959. The precedence for
devisive politics in free India was set during his times. History commits ironies.
In numbers. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Pandit Nehru was regarded as coming of aristocratic lineage,
and often many parliamentarians like Ram Manohar Lohia, who coined the term ‘Ghoongi
Gudia‘ for his daughter Mrs Gandhi, and
whose sole fame in life remained in running down Pandit Nehru, once shouted in
the parliament, ‘The Nehrus claim to be aristocratic, I can prove that the
Prime Minister’s grandfather was a chaprasi in Mughal Court. Jawahar Lal Nehru
in his typical atoned manner retorted back, ‘I’m glad the Hon’ble Member has at
last accepted what I have been trying to tell him for so many years- that I am
a man of the people!’ And that he certainly was. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Here was man who after completing his education in Trinity
College Cambridge England returned to India. The seat of power was something
that young Jawahar had no need to work hard for, after all his father Moti Lal
Nehru was a top Congress leader. However, Pandit Nehru not only shunned the
privilege aristocracy, but also the Saville Row suits and Victorian crockery, replaced
dutifully with Khadi and handmade earthen pots at Anand Bhavan, Nehru’s mansion
at Allahabad, a house which before his arrival glittered under garden parties
and overflowing scotch. He convinced his father MotiLal Nehru to walk on his
path. Over next two decades JNL embarked on a journey that was nothing less
than as an act of ‘self-making’, and ‘nation building’ capping in his book The
Discovery of India, which he wrote while in prison. JLN made himself an Indian
by travelling across the length and breadth of India, appalled at the poverty
of his countrymen, their helplessness, their misery; in turn replaying in his mind the India of
his dreams that we envisioned along with his dramatic journey, sometimes
looking pensively at a far downtrodden village through the window of his train.
One of his long-time aide V.K Menon thought JLN was a radical activist, happy
fighting for a cause; more than a politician. It was these principles of khadi,
satyagraha, swadesh which he learned from his mentor MK Gandhi that laid the
foundation stone of India’s freedom struggle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /><br />Pandit Nehru all his life was non-communal. His disdain for
religion was well known. In the aftermath of gory partition killings, a
horrified Nehru wrote, ‘There is a limit to brutality and that limit has been
crossed. As long as I am alive India will not become a Hindu State. The very
idea of a theocratic state is not only medieval but also stupid.’ Nehru
resolved to preserve the secular credentials of India all his life. Once his
Marxist friend Andre Malraux, the famous French novelist who fought in Spanish
civil war asked him what his greatest challenge is since Independence, Nehru
replied, ‘Creating a secular state in a religious country.’ The present call
for cow vigilantism is not new. The demand stood always by right wing Hindu
party Bhartiya Jan Sangh. But Nehru withstood to the pressure. He rejected all
demands for a ban on cow slaughter saying he would rather resign than give in
to this futile, silly and ridiculous demand. The India of 21<sup>st</sup>
century Modi has come a long way- not necessarily in the right direction!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Nehru very tactfully played the card of non-alignment at the
zenith of cold war, refusing to be a part of any bloc. Henry Kissinger writes
in his book World Order- ‘The essence of this strategy was that it allowed
India to draw support from both Cold War camps- securing military aid through Soviet
bloc, while courting American development assistance and moral support. It was
a wise course for an emerging nation. Rather than being a poor secondary ally,
as a free agent India could exercise a much wider reaching influence.’ The
policy paid its dividends during the ’71 war, when Pakistan as an American
ally, was kept waiting for the elusive 7<sup>th</sup> fleet. As history goes,
the American military aid never arrived and Pakistan lost its east forever. The
repercussion of Bangladesh war is to this day felt, especially in Kashmir. </div>
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Levying the blame of dynasty politics and nepotism on Nehru
has become a national pastime for Indians. The facts however are contrary to
it. There is no evidence to prove that Nehru was grooming his daughter to
succeed him as prime minister. In fact well before his death he drafted back
Lal Bahadur Shastri into government and was very clear with his deteriorating health
that he should be his worthy successor. Indira Gandhi once regretfully said,
‘My father never spoke to me about government affairs. Never.’ As a patriarch
Nehru was keen to keep her influence only till Teen Murti affairs. Perhaps, he
had a fatherly sense of her authoritarian way of leading, which he disapproved.
Something which almost brought down the
Indian democracy in ’75 emergency.</div>
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The demolition of Babri Masjid in 1992 and ensuing communal
violence perhaps tainted India’s secular credentials beyond repair, rocking its
secular foundations and liberal Nehruvian ideas, however, if one goes few
decades back, a similar tragedy was averted in 1951, when India was barely
finding its feet, in Somnath, when Nehru disapproved of the temple’s reconstruction,
well aware of the anteposition it could set, and in very plain terms calling it
dangerous revivalism of Hinduism. He ultimately agreed to it but ensured that
money for reconstruction would not come from government exchequer. He was clear
that state must not meddle in religious affairs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />There is no absolutely no doubt that Jawahar Lal Nehru was
twentieth centuries greatest statesman, who dared to dream that the newly born
Indian state, in its midnight tryst with destiny, touches the highest
democratic standards of the world. Did he succeed or fail? 70 years are too
less to judge it yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-20230515483371378362017-10-16T13:33:00.000+04:002019-09-12T13:33:50.305+04:00Ode To Sadhana<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A year into our marriage, when my wife was in Kashmir
recuperating after the birth of our son, she calls me one evening. She sounded
little fitful. When I asked her the reason, she retorted that she saw a dream
where an older woman was living with me in our flat. Taken aback I told her I
have made a collage of some of my favorite pictures of Sadhana the actress, and
put it up on one of our walls in the hallway. The dream was true in some ways.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fact is, I’m not just a fan of Sadhana, in that sense. I do
believe with good conviction that I’m in love with her. And it’s not the love
of a fan towards an actress. It’s something more. Something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Al Pacino says his favorite actress is Julie
Christie- Lara from Doctor Zhivago fame, because she is the most poetic
actress. Same can be said about<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadhana.
She owned a face where invariably one would turn out couple of lines in ode of
her beauty, her subtlety, her femininity. On her mannerism which were her
signet. She is at her enchantress best as a belle in songs like Abhi na jao
chod kar, where in childlike affection she has a tete-a-tete with Dev Anand.
The lyrical prose of the song accentuating the entire mood. I don’t think this
song could have been picturized on any other actress. Or Lag jaa gaale from Woh
kaun thi. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In an age when movies in Hindi film industry were largely
about social issues and aftermath of industrial revolution, and very less
emphasis was on fashion;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadhana was a
sort of an aberrant. She was nothing less than a fashion icon in her Audrey
Hepburn inspired fringe- which was known in India as Sadhana cut. What better
proof of her sense of style that the tight churidar and mojris she wore in Yash
Chopra’s Waqt are still in vogue. If you happen to have a look at family albums
of 60s and 70s, Sadhana imprint is all over on girls and ladies of the times. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a very famous incident that occurred on the set of
her first film, in which she had a small supporting role. She asked the film’s
star Sheila Ramani for autograph. Ramani scribbled ‘One day I will come for
your autograph.’ It was hard to ignore Sadhana’s star potential from very early
on in her career. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Regarding her famous fringe, there is an interesting
anecdote. It was her to-be husband R.K Nayyar, she fondly called as Rummy, who
advised to cover her broad forehead. Those days Audrey Hepburn’s Roman Holiday
with Gregory Peck, had just released. She was promptly sent to a Chinese
hairdresser and thus the famous Sadhana fringe was born.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being a trend setter that she was, the tight fusion
churidars was her<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>idea to her costume
designer Banu Athiya. One day during the filming of Waqt when Yash Chopra saw
her wearing a sleeveless, gold embroidered kurti, churidar and mojris he
immediately gave a thumbs up to the chic look, stating that it was exactly the
look he wanted for his heroine. That costume can be seen in ‘hum jab simat ke
apki bahon mai agaye’ song, which is shot in Srinagar’s Lalit Grand Palace’s
grandeur gardens. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sadhana brand had reached to such levels that even her
burkas, that she wore in Mere Mehboob, set off a veiled trend in India back
then. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She had a successful marriage with her first director R.K
Nayyar. A marriage that ended only when R.K Nayyar died suddenly in 1995. A
week before his death he called his wife and in some premonition asked her to
take care of herself after he is gone. Sadhana told him what if she dies first.
R.K Nayyar replied, ‘phir do arthiyan uthegi. I will not be able to survive
without you.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sadhana died at the age of 74, on 25th December 2015,
leaving behind a legacy which is hard to fill. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-28559483592509809562017-06-16T15:49:00.000+04:002017-08-06T10:50:53.544+04:00Europe- Travelogue- Part I, Italy.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">There is a thing about European cities. A
certain sound. I observed it in almost all cities that I visited on my
backpacking trip. An echo that rebounds from stunning arty architectural
structures. The imprint of renaissance arts is felt almost all over Europe.</span></div>
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<br /><br /> I began my trip from Rome; after a stopover at Frankfurt- the gateway to
Europe. Frankfurt is a sprawling airport; endless. Almost all major flights
from Asia, passing over to US, Scandinavian and Canada, stop at Frankfurt.
Changing my flight at Frankfurt, after I had a cup of hot cappuccino- I
absolutely adore the smell at airport cafes, it just fills my senses of
upcoming adventures; I was on board to Rome. It is said Rome is always sunny in
its azure skies. The breathtakingly blue skies welcomed me too as I hit Rome
early in the morning. I checked into my Air BnB accommodation, choosing a place
near Roma Centrale- Rome’s major train and metro station. From here the
Colosseum and Roman Forum were on walking distance. My first places to visit in
Rome. <br />
<br /><br /> The construction of Colosseum began in AD 72 and was inaugurated in AD 80 by Emperor
Titus, with a hundred days of festivities. For about 5 centuries on the
occasion of anniversaries and military victories, the emperors spent vast
resources on staging magnificent spectacles for citizens. The Gladiator combats
were banned in the 5th century but combats with wild animals are recorded as late
as till 12th century. It is quite remarkable to envisage what must have been the
scene during the days of its pomp. Now what was lying before my eyes was a
mural sketch of that era. I tried breathing some of its air. Tried imagining myself
as one of the spectators back then, cheering the Gladiators. I met an old local
Roman, who was aimlessly walking around the Forum. We got talking. <br />
<br /><br /> He was a tour guide. What he told me was fascinating. In the days of its glory
in Colosseum, the spectacle used to begin early in the morning. During the
lunch interval, executions and besties took place; the condemned, naked and
unarmed, faced wild beasts, which would eventually tear them to pieces. During
the interval there were performances by jugglers, magicians and acrobats.
Finally Gladiator combats (munera) were held in the afternoon. The participants
in these combats were usually prisoners of war, slaves and some free men
seeking fame and fortune. The games were often financed by politicians who
hoped to curry favor with public, but the intellectuals saw these spectacles as
a means of swaying public from real issues and as a cause of spiritual
decadence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />I sometimes think a city chooses me,
rather than I choosing it. It is no accident that propels people like me to
Rome. Rome is the cradle of previous births. You can read here on the walls
where Raphael and da Vinci lived. Rome was existing since 700 years, when its
most famous emperor Augustus took throne in 27 BC. According to a legend Rome
was founded by twins Romulus and Remus, raised by a she-wolf. Over the
centuries, Rome’s wealth had drawn people across the empire, creating a population
of around 1 million, one of the largest urban population in the pre-industrial
world. Yet the physical appearance of the city belied the military and
political might of its ruling class. Rome was an urban sprawl grown without
long term planning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Under Augustus however there began a
gradual development into a city worthy of world empire. The Rome of today has
huge etch of the Augustus era. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The Roman Forum, the civic centre of the
greatest city is an accretion of centuries of buildings. Laying in the shadow
of the Capitoline hill, the Forum is flanked by basilicas (great halls for
judicial business), political buildings and temples. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /><br />I loved walking on the streets of Rome.
There is a sense of serenity in this ancient city that is not hard to miss.
While modernity has its imprints, but Rome largely has retained its flavour. I spent
my days in Rome visiting museums, bookstores, Vatican city, eating tasty crisp
pizzas on many of its open restaurants; stopping over a corner bend and getting
absolutely lost in the street music played by nearby musician: flutes,
saxophone, guitar. Rome is delightful in that sense. A treasure for someone
like me who loves lazing around aimlessly. I found many of my tribe in this
city. Rome also is famous for stately gorgeous Piazzas (city centres). One of
the most famous being Piazza Navona. There were artists all around, musicians, travellers,
revellers. Rome accepts everything and gives you back a part of its own soul. I
carry it along with me, now, always.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /><br />Rest of my backpacking trip in Italy
included Napoli and Pompeii in south and Florence in north. For Napoli and
Pompeii, I took a super-fast Trenitalia train from Rome. Napoli is a shoddy
city more than anything; over populous, with residential building stacked over
one another, hardly any air to breathe. There are tiny labyrinth lanes, with
clothes left for drying from almost all windows. However, my reason to be in
south Italy was to visit Pompeii, a major city during the glory of Roman
empire. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /><br />From Napoli, Pompeii is an hour’s drive. The
end of this great city in AD 69 was so sudden that it probably has no equal in
history. The volcanic eruption on Mount Vesuvius, surrounding this city,
completely destroyed it. The surprised Pompeiians had little idea what hit
them, as the volcanic crystals showered on them for 2 days with the ash
covering the city later. Perhaps, a reason why most of the city could be
excavated; the volcanic molten preventing decay. There are charred bread
crumbs, onions, other vegetables that were excavated by the archaeologists!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /><br /><br />From one of the shops at the main Stabiana, coins were found in the baker’s
oven. The owner perhaps had left them there, after the eruption, in hope of
return. It took me over five hours to see the ruins of this once magnificent
city; giving me endless memories to savor. I visited what is world’s first
known Amphi theatre at Pompeii. The theatre held gladiator games with a
capacity of twenty thousand people. Pink Floyd played here in 1974. There is a
small memorabilia built in memory of that concert. Hair on my forearms prickled
when I walked through the dark gallery; walls playing Echoes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Overhead the albatross hangs motionless
upon the air<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And deep beneath the rolling waves in
labyrinths of coral caves<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The echo of a distant tide<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Comes willowing across the sand<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And everything is green and submarine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />What is most remarkable about Pompeii is
how the structures, at least most of the main casa’s- belonging to wealthy
Pompeiians, have retained their glory. Murals on walls inside the houses are
still visible. I walked inside these houses, feeling the walls with my hands.
There was one very distinct memory that stayed with me. After being dead like a
tired horse, I dropped my backpack and leaned against a wall, in one of the
Pompeiian houses. It was a two storied cassa- with a beautiful garden in the centre.
I must have stayed silent for a long long time, breathing the Pompeiian air.
Few leaves flickered under a mild breeze coming from the Amalfi coast. A
cricket bird chirped. It was the sort of moment for which in the hindsight when
I lookback, I feel my purpose of life is achieved. Traveling across as a solo
traveller, sitting here in a remote south Italian city, in ruins, with
absolutely no one that I know- in complete wilderness of my thoughts. Alone.
Yet connected to the larger purpose. It is the understanding of the difference
between journey and goal; the awareness of the truth that the goal of life is
the living of it. I was woken up by a fellow traveller, who perhaps saw me
sitting quietly in a corner. He quipped in a rather hush manner, ‘mate, its
beautiful here.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My next stop in Italy was Florence — a
quaint little city in North Italy. I checked into a hostel here. Hostels are
cheap and allow you to mix with travellers of different countries. In my case I
couldn’t have asked for more; they had an all-weather swimming pool and sauna
bath. My tired limbs cried for it. Of course, my reason to be in Florence was
to see the Michelangelo museum, where his most famous art work David stood.
David is Michelangelo's most famous and celebrated art work. He began work on
it in 1501 AD. Scholars believe that David is here represented after his
victory over Goliath, the sling on David's shoulder is used to bring Goliath
down. Thus emphasizing that David did not use any brute force, but his
intelligence and innocence, to gain victory. It took Michelangelo four years to
make David, grinding it from a slab of marble. When completed, the art work was
carried on a carriage throughout the city, with people marvelling at it,
finally finding its place at a central Piazza in the heart of Florence, where
it stood for many many years. He had his critics though. It is said when Michelangelo
was finishing David, the town mayor came to have a </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">look. Michelangelo had put a canvas
around David, so that no one could watch him work. The canvas scaffolding gave
away and the Mayor had a look at David. Putting up the show of the art connoisseur,
Mayor pointed out the nose was too thick, though from his vantage point it was
impossible to judge the thickness of nose! Ever the smart he was, Michelangelo
climbed up the scaffold, grabbing a hammer and pretended at </span>chiseling<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> the
nose. ‘How’s it now Mr Mayor,’ he shouted from the top. He had not touched the
sculpture, of course. “Now, it’s much better,” exclaimed the mayor. “Now you’ve
put life into it.” The stupidity of some critics has stayed along years.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I went back to my room. Had another round
of swim and slept early. Next day morning, I had to catch my train to Zurich. I
was traveling to the land of Yash Chopra!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-52436872077027749832017-04-20T14:38:00.003+04:002017-04-20T14:46:56.542+04:00Jaffna Street- book review.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Jaffna Street is essentially unsettling. Not because
it talks about the horrors that war brings upon its causalities, but because it
is neither </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;">a testimony nor a polemic. It’s very easy and
convenient to take sides, when you talk about conflicts; but that’s not what
literature is meant for. To tell </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;">stories as they are require a certain amount of grasp
at things; on the ground. Khalid not only had his ears to the ground, being
born and brought up <span id="goog_437711951"></span><span id="goog_437711952"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">in downtown Srinagar, what substantially was the hot
seat of an armed revolution that began in late ’89, but he also his heart in
place. Jaffna Street </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;">is written with tremendous panache. It’s like the
famous designer from Italy Enrico Coveri taking to word-smithery. Detailing is
to the point, editing crisp, without really dragging ever.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">From the political evolution of the 1980s generation coming
of age and seeking to lay their claim on the 1931 ethno-religious political project, their
flights across the LoC into the arms training camps and their encounters with
idealistic long forgotten pioneers of
the insurgency. From the story of a survivor of the Jammu pogrom in 1947 to the
unknown political face of Meerakh Shah,
the celebrated mystic, From the travails
of an NC worker who suffers bereavement in state inflicted violence and in the
end dies a violent death, the bakra
diehard Fayaz whose life is totally altered because of his devotion to the
Mirwaiz family and its politics, Khalid
suffers no biases,everything is exhaustively dealt upon even the long dead
prophesier of Safakadal whose utterances still provoke messianic undercurrents
in that area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The part about the student gangs and professional
gangsters, existing in the 70s and 80s of Srinagar, seemed to me like watching
Sergio Leone’s epic gangster movie Once Upon a Time in America. The brazen use
of knuckledusters, shootings, substance abuse and the introduction of word
Mandrax in our daily vernacular. The fierce rivalry between the Gaw Kadal-
Batmalyun gang on one side and the Dalgate gang on other, throws up characters
like the eccentric James Wood’s Max in the movie did. ‘M’ as he is referred in
anomaly in the book, fits the bill perfectly. Fond of extravagance, gadgets and
high life, M treads on a path full of danger. Growing up in a marginalized
family, in a city-side ghetto, M rises up on ladder of crime, carving a niche
amongst wise guys. If M is ambitious and boisterous, then there is a De Niro
like Noodles Mac too- the old gang leader of the City Side boys gang, who
though later on, given an opportunity, after stint in insurgency and prison
refused to dabble in politics, admonishing the loathed separatist politics. Mac
in his days may have been ruthless with his Kukri and chains, but he carries a
conscience. There was a certain air about those guys, of that generation. Men
of honour. It is something any downtowner can tell you. I’d my share of my
cousins too, from this generation; driving their Yamaha’s, adorning their walls
with George Michael posters, sporting aviators, wooing girls. For me they were John
Rambo clones. How I wished to be like them, like any fan would.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">There are moments where the book absolutely lights up.
Story of Nazir Gaash, the Marxist of Safa Kadal remains my favorite part of the
book. The part is dealt with tremendous maturity by the author. A
nonconformist, Nazir Gaash’s self searching forays early in his life takes him
to Buddhism. Unable to satiate his existential crisis, Gaash’s intellectual
pursuits, piqued by a curious mind, take him to the world of Marx and Western
philosophy. The author mentions how his own intellectual growth took shape on
Gaash’s shopfront, appropriately named Edible Link, where he would often engage
in the world of ideas. The city could still bear a nihilist son. But all this
changed at the throes of the war. People like Gaash wisely kept to themselves,
for the bullet had no respect for ideas. His sphere of Sartre and Kant was
somehow washed down Jhelum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">It must have been around 2ish in the morning, when I
was reading Gaash’s story. I closed the book on my chest and kept gazing at the
chandelier on top of my head. I don’t know for how long was in this state. The
abject absurdity of life and a long abyss that we look through occupied my
mind, with Gaash’s convictions and intellectual odysseys at the back of it. I
don’t know what beckoned my wife. She woke up from her sleep, turned the lights
on at the corner of our hall, where I’ve my library and where I usually read.
She jolted me. It was quite a moment, in the introspection of a man and the
world he saw largely at. Lost in the oblivion. The existential desertion. And
the larger futility of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The story of Ijaz,
son of a artisan, fondly called Ija: a well behaved, soft spoken boy, is
very poignant. Though it’s short but it pierces one like a bullet. Buoyed by
the calls for arms revolution, Ijaz like host of others disappeared in the
summer of 1990. He had joined a group that was going to cross the LOC for arms
training. Contaminated water had made Ijaz sick. Dehydrated and feverish he
couldn’t continue with the rest of the guys and was abandoned in the forest.
Ijaz didn’t die of enemy bullets. He was a consumption of war. A mere
statistics in the end. A number. And that’s the misery and the truth of a war.
Khalid has narrated it, as it is, which is not only brave but also a far cry
from the beaten victim card played by us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Khalid has spoken a language unknown to those who read
about Kashmir conflict. He is not only brazenly honest but also bitter. Bitter
at the mediocrity surrounding us, which we unfortunately and shamelessly
celebrate too often.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">A quarter and a century
ago, writer David Bellos says he was talking to a French friend </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">about paucity
of literary material on the Algerian War, accusing France of voluntary </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">amnesia.
He reached to his shelf, pulled down a tattered paperback, and said without any </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">words: There was a literature of the Algerian War, and here it is. The book was </span><span style="font-family: helvetica, sans-serif;">Daniel </span><br />
<span style="font-family: helvetica, sans-serif;">Anselme’s La Permission. Jaffna Street is right up there.</span><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The review appeared in two leading daily's.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.kashmirtimes.in/newsdet.aspx?q=65649" target="_blank">http://www.kashmirtimes.in/newsdet.aspx?q=65649</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.greaterkashmir.com/news/op-ed/neither-a-testimony-nor-a-polemic/246307.html" target="_blank">http://www.greaterkashmir.com/news/op-ed/neither-a-testimony-nor-a-polemic/246307.html</a></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-87129606697871137832016-08-12T19:42:00.000+04:002017-04-20T14:34:37.243+04:00The Bourgeois Question And a Summer in Kashmir.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As the saying goes, it is always easier to fight for one's principles than to live up to them. In Anurag Kashyap’s film Gulaal, which I regard as one of the finest movies ever to have been made in Indian cinema, the rebel leader Dukkey Bana in his fiery speeches urges the Rajputana bourgeoisie that unless they empty their treasures, shed blood for the cause, freedom is a far off reality.<br />
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I'm fresh from Kashmir, so I allow myself to take some liberties. Being skeptical is certainly one of them. More than anyone, I kept questioning myself. Truth be told, I’ve never taken part in any Azadi procession, except way back in the spring of ’90, when almost entire Srinagar was on roads, leading a march to UN office at Sonwar. It was a surreal experience. Sitting atop on the shoulders of my elder cousins, I shouted, ‘Hum kya Chahte Azadi.’ That spring of ’90 had some other touch. In me that seed of Azadi was sown I’m sure on that bright spring Kashmir day. Why did we lose it then? Where did we fail? Why couldn’t we nourish it?<br />
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<br />
Coming back to 2016, this whole month, while I was on my vacation, and state imposed all sorts of restrictions, I managed to sneak a look at social media few times. The last time I checked, visibly irritated, I logged out soon. The glaring difference between what's on the ground and what's on social media disgusted me. Two lakh people took part in Burhan’s funeral, someone else quips deviously, 4 lakh did in Sheikh Abdullah’s. Remember, there were only 11 people on Karl Marx’s funeral.<br />
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One of my friends had checked-in at a restaurant in Delhi; Kheyn Chen or something of that sorts. Poor guy was rebuked. People are dying and you're dining. Fair enough. But the affluent class are having their tummies satiated with Maaz and Koker every day. Why then this tendency to turn suddenly into an activist on social media?<br />
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<br />
The supply has not stopped one single day. Early mornings, late evenings, domestic helps in our part of the forsaken Valley would go out and buy all such luxuries. I, for one, tasted some of the freshest vegetables in K in a long, long time. On early morning, with the grass still wet in our lawn, freshly plucked vegetables were being sold from Piaggio pick-ups. Elderly, mostly retired government officers (Ex-Engineers, Commissioners, HODs) in their snow white prayer caps, would flock together on a curve or a nook inside our lanes, discussing Rajnath Singh's latest blurb. They would quietly retrieve into their homes after another few minutes of meaningless discussion.<br />
<br />
<br />
Moving on, everyone I met had only one thing to ask/ advice. When are you going back? Why did you come here at the first place? There is nothing left here. Beta, leave Kashmir as soon as possible.<br />
It’s almost as if we have handed over the reins of Tehreek into the hands of few who decided to stay back. Keep the flame of Azadi alive, so to speak, while I secure mine and my children’s future.<br />
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<br />
The larger point that I’m trying to make is that in the many hues of narratives that Kashmir throws up, we are conveniently silent about this one: the bourgeois have to come out of their comfortable zones and join the call of Azadi. Against the will of the people India cannot hold Kashmir forever. May be not today, not tomorrow but one day India would have to leave Kashmir. We only have to read history. Replete with struggles against mighty powers, the will of the people always wins. In the French decolonization of Algeria, where a civil war was actually fought between the pro-Algerian colonists and the pro-freedom sections of society, the battle lines were clear. At the height of cold war, who would have imagined Russia’s disintegration? However, for us to realize this reality, it’s not just the proletariats who have to fight the battle. The Bourgeois must take part, and in a sustained manner.<br />
<br />
<br />
Quoting the rebellious Dukkey again in Gulaal, 'Ager tum log aise he bachchon ko videsh bhejte rahe, tou mai krantikari kya Kashmir se laon?' He obviously would not know, we have already left K.<br />
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-49384364280820388972016-05-08T15:04:00.001+04:002016-05-08T15:04:41.828+04:00Babam ve Oglum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In the long summers of my childhood, like
Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby, I was convinced that life was beginning over
again with the summer. Each year. Over and again. The summers were long, in our
neck of the woods, so long that they stretched out our lives. Every little
possibility marched into the long shadows that our vacations threw. Games
flared up suddenly; cousin sleepovers, hopscotch, the fingertips tried touching
the skies, endless mirth grew louder with the crickets of August. I threw
myself open to new adventures, while long days, never changing, grew heavy with
endless possibilities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />I had heard tales of other voyages, out
beyond the ends of the town, high up into the clouds. As a boy I had gone up so
high, like a balloon that grows smaller and vanishes suddenly into the blues,
beyond any sight. There were towns up there, so they said; white cloud towns,
with tapering tops. Up there, beyond the blue, there were rivers and streams,
birds with rainbow colored tails; cities of snow. Stories I believed in. Cities
I believe existed. A world that was mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />What happened then, eh? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />Let’s say life hasn’t been so smooth
lately. A major health scare, that luckily wasn’t one, got me thinking at many
levels. Like many of those who bear the brunt of this capitalist lifestyle:
earning, spending, earning more and spending more, forever running a race that
literally seems to have no destination. I’m many times lost in the maze of it.
The abject futility of the exercise had fatigued me to all ends. A sense of
despair loomed at large. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />While a part of me always encourages to
question, yet I began wondering if these are essentially armatures for my aphorisms
and philosophical aides. Free standing baubles? I carried on nevertheless,
carrying the weight on my back. Unable to make any sense of it. I would wake up
each morning, sluggish and heavy headed. A weariness - like sadness, I would
plunge into sleep every night. I could feel darkness ripening within me;
unwittingly I kept losing myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A good positive mind set has the powers
to turn tables, let alone fortunes- that old slick lady who knocks on our doors
often. While I wasn’t exactly worried about my own self, I’ve never bothered to
take proper care of myself, but here I wasn’t thinking about myself. I was no
longer what I was. I was a husband now. A father to a son, who believed and
lived in that world, where some years back I glided.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />In truth life is impossible. People
deceive. Friends leave. Love fails. Job bores. Good news is all this can be
changed; if we accept it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />One evening wiping the morose sweat globs
from my brow, I suddenly glanced at my son. He was busy as usual in his
impishness; talking endlessly to himself, creating non-existing characters in
his mind, talking to them, making up stories. Trying to explain to me how his
day went by. I just pulled myself from where I was trapped, and I looked at all
this; this whole scene as an outsider. For few seconds, I kept looking at my
son continuously. And everything cleared out. The haze cleared up. The curtains
drifted apart. Walls disappeared. The sky was blue. Again. A sunny strip of
road had long shadows sprawled over it, a small white cloud hang up in the
middle, just when my son stood up at the window and shouted in his twisted
words, ‘Baba aeroplane’, flying like a carpet. The empty sky was so blue, so
richly and thick blue, that it seemed a thing I ought to feel. Like my son. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />Children are best teachers, as the saying
goes. On that one evening, my two year old taught me a lesson: Your mind is the
sum of the whole world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">P.S: The title is inspired from a Turkish movie- My Father, My Son.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-31567444477977053302016-03-02T20:46:00.002+04:002016-03-03T13:21:51.010+04:00A Free Man ~ Aman Sethi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If you hover in the air around Bara Tooti Chowk, Sadar Bazar, Pahargunj, Azad Market on a Alladin Carpet, straight out of an Arabian Night spaceship and point your finger on one of the thousands, millions of Delhiite denizens, scurrying for space beneath; some pedaling on their rickshaws- transporting over-weight passengers from New Delhi railway station, ploddering, exhausting last bit of their muscle energy, at times standing tall on their rickshaw pedals, to thrust it forward with force; occasionally spitting pink <i>gutka</i> with equal burden on the road below. </div>
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Or you turn left and put your finger on this <i>beedi</i> smoking, reed thin laborer standing at a junction below Daryaganj flyover, amidst a gaggle of laborers, perhaps looking for work. Slightly drowsy, may be from last nights excessive drinking. </div>
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Or you may look far ahead below where a govt. hospital stands. Weak, dispirited patients; angry, confused, cursy' attendants, all waiting in mincing patience. A lull of gloom is suspended in the air around; some of it lingering on these faces, from a long long time. </div>
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It seems Aman Sethi was up on one of such Alladin Carpets, where he chose to pick amongst the million Delhiite, stone broke under privileged non-native dweller. In this story he has a name: Ashraf. </div>
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Aman Sethi’s, ‘A Free Man’ is a drama-less memoir written in exquisite style. Never once did I feel out of sync with the story. He held me there, with him and Ashraf. I finished the book in 2 days, in the middle of the week. </div>
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There is something Delhi can give you- a sense of <i>azadi</i>, freedom from past, says Ashraf in his own blasé style to Aman in one of the many interviews, that Aman conducts over a period of few years, following Ashraf, chronicling his story with method and empathy. There are two types of people here: those who pull the trigger and those who survive the shootout. In a very non-philosophical tone, Ashraf states a very basic fact of living and settling down in the city. For those who come to Delhi from neighboring UP, Bihar and Jharkhand in search of unbound wealth. </div>
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The story is written in times when Delhi was surging towards this monstrous metropolitan that it has turned into now. With growth, comes desolation. A glass ware built on the ruins of poor. With Common Wealth games scheduled in 2010, the Delhi Municipal Corporation went on a spree of demolishing unregistered settlements. The violent displacement of slum dwellers around Sanjay Amar Colony was hardly given coverage by the national press who described the process as necessary for urban renewal. The working class once more crucified at the altar of crony capitalism. How it affected an entire population is where Aman Sethi’s story comes alive. </div>
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While the basis of the story may be grim, but, Sethi doesn’t fail to see the humor that visibly exists in these dungeons. </div>
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Hope, perhaps, is what binds these countless marginalized to a city oppressive to their right to live with dignity; quite brilliantly exemplified in Rehaan’s story- one of Ashraf’s accomplice, who on one afternoon under the shade of a <i>Gulmohar</i> tree, while sipping chai, reveals emphatically his dream business, that could turn him wealthy overnight. The business starts with buying a goat, from where he would switch to rearing pigs and extracting sugar, from a sugarcane distillery. When everything seemed to be worked out, Rehaaan regrets that it isn’t possible because his father is a devout Muslim, and would not allow him a mere mention of pigs in his presence. The plan crashes down under its own weight. The wacky irony in the whole narration is brilliant. </div>
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Aman Sethi's debut book is not about triumph or making it big, rising through the ranks- a rags to riches story. No its not. It is just a story that he picked from many countless alleys, crossings, heaving markets, deathlike willy-nilly plastered hospitals with rickety benches and stenchy' bed sheets, where each grain of thick summer air holds death and despair in it.</div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-61878617625796310682016-02-28T01:49:00.002+04:002016-02-28T02:00:16.411+04:00Of February, Stones, Despair, Camus and Sports.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It is quite extraordinary what sports means to us. And there is a reason why I’m bringing it up in my mind, while sipping another cup of tea, on this late hour.</div>
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Well, February, the second month of year 2016, has been one such back-breaking, literally, month. Difficult. Extremely onerous at times. To cut the long story short, my health has been not well; I was operated for a Kidney stone, third time in my life span of 33 years. Quite high, you may say so. I don’t know, why and how I develop these God awful stones. The pain was excruciating for two days, when the Urologist finally did some tests, held his hands up in the air and declared, “we have to operate in emergency, there is a chance that the Kidney may fail. Grade 2 Hydronephrosis. Bastard had blocked the Ureter- a 5 mm diameter pipe that takes out excreta from Kidney into the Bladder. The right Kidney was bloated. </div>
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Well, so, lo and behold, the stone was out, few hours later. But this isn’t the end of the story. It cannot be. </div>
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As it goes, I had recently changed my job. New visa, emirates id blah blah. But the God cursed insurance card was not yet processed! I called my HR, my manager, we tried to fix up; to have the card at the earliest. They said it will take 2-3 days for the card to be issued. But, we could not wait. As I said I was suffering from Grade 2 Hydronephrosis. At Grade 3, Kidney gives up. Doctor had to operate. We could not wait for the card. So I ended up paying around 13,000 AED. Which roughly comes around 2.5 Lakh INR. We thought of trying reimbursement later, which I did now. I’ve submitted all my papers: invoice, discharge summary, cash receipt et al. Waiting for the approval. However, truth be told, I've very less hope of reimbursement. They have many reasons to reject. </div>
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Meanwhile, I joined work back after a break of almost 2 weeks. Anyone would tell you, a new job, in a new position isn’t easy. I was only finding out myself in the</div>
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scheme of the new things, when this episode happened. But, then eventually we somehow make out. Humans have this great quality. Adjusting. </div>
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The two weeks so as to speak were not a waste by any stretch of imagination. I finished 3 books, and 1 unfinished one- the one that was untouched from last 3 years. It stood there quietly on my bookshelf with a bookmark in place- an ancient Egyptian calendar that I had picked up years ago from Global Village Carnival. I was glad to find the bookmark. I’d probably forgotten about it. I watched a few of my favorite movies too. Again. The first night after operation I could not wrap my eyes for a second. So I ended up watching Color of Paradise- using up truck loads of tissue paper. I cried like a child. I always do for Mohammed and his faith. His faith of finding the touch of God. A few other favorites in the course of next 2 weeks were re-watched; Goodfellas, Pulp Fiction, Shawshank Redemption, Dog Day Afternoon, Wind Will Carry Us et al. </div>
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In the days that led up to this miserable February, me and my couple of like minded friends, decided to pick a book and circulate it amongst us. Each one giving his review at the end of it. Of what he picked in the book? This way it would keep our interest aglow and we would read with much more attentiveness.</div>
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So, the first book we chose was Albert Camus’s, ‘The Stranger’. Nature, God, divinity, coincidence- call it whatever, has its own way. I read The Stranger in my recovery period, completely lost in the reverie of Meursalt. Of how he sees the world around him. A conventional world. A normal world. Its absurdity at the core of his existence was naked to him. But he was a stranger. An oddity. He is a perverse, delinquent guy. A question to the society, that is not used to providing answers. So, the world condemns him. Camus’s if we dwell deep, through the book, says each one of us in the world is condemned to his own. However, we bluff. We justify our act. Hence we live. But only delay what is inevitable. Death. The absurdity of our existence, bared, in the end.i </div>
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So, you can imagine my on pins and needles state in all these weeks. So what really transpired today, that got me thinking so long, when I have work tomorrow, yet I’m typing up this late on my Mac Book, frantically looking for a socket every 10 mins, when the battery clock beeps. 1 percent left! </div>
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Pakistan is playing India. Mother of all battles; by all means, sir. Upset with the events of the day, waiting in the queue for Doctor, doing post operative check ups, I slept in the afternoon once I got back home. More from the need of being shut from the world; than tiredness. When I woke up, Pakistan had skittled out for 85. Down and dusted. The day couldn’t go any worse. One of my fears was, what laid next in store? Least interested in the game, I kept on sipping tea from my Marx imprinted mug. India came out to chase. By the end of Aamir’s second over he had 3 back in the dump. With a disjoined, dispirited guy, thousands of Kilometers away, in his apartment, inconsequential life, throwing up his arms, clinching his fist at every wicket. Yes, yes. Annihilate them. And right there it stuck me. What excited me so much, when barely moments ago I was questing the futility of my existence. </div>
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That is the beauty of sports. That is what sports can do. That is its power. And in the end the futility is run over by hope, in a matter of few deliveries from Aamir.</div>
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Long strides. I got my answer. I got my touch. </div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-19410593826117103852015-12-05T16:06:00.001+04:002015-12-05T16:52:56.447+04:00Of Memories, Abba, Murakami, Sufiana Mousiqi and Radio Kashmir.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I've been reading lot of Murakami lately, especially with these holidays we had this week. Lost many times in a maze of memories, Murakami does that to you, took me to that window sill of our house in Kashmir; where grandfather's Philips radio played Sufiyana Mousikee by G M Saaznawaz. On dull, morose winter days, through this window a fading light, straight out of a Guru Dutt effect, would fall into our living room. Abba would be lost in the reverie, many times eyes enclosed. The effect of Ustaad Saaznawaz's santoor and voice had strange tranquility about it. The lines, the notes swirled in our living room.</div>
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There is so little, so much to remember of anyone. A conversation, an anecdote, a window sill, a radio. Memories are like diaries that we carry always with us. Taking a note, every now and then. Going back to the journal, as I did today, I opened that page I wrote many moons ago, on those winter days of early 90s. The warmth of my Grandfather and the oblivion of a ugly world outside kept me in stood steed. When did it all change, while Jhelum still winded past. I would not know. Memories are such. The good ones and the bad ones.</div>
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People leave strange memories behind when they go says Murakami. I would give anything to be back in that moment. Of affection, of large joint family, of a long long mirthful winter break and Abba's Radio Kashmir.</div>
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I sometimes fail to add up the gains of living away from home. A pittance gained, a life lost.</div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-4505754432862474452015-09-04T14:03:00.000+04:002015-10-25T14:07:40.020+04:00Aylan Kurdi.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Aylan Kurdi drowned in the Aegean Sea last night, in a way
symbolising the refugee crisis in Syria and Iraq, that world has ignored
coldly. The family of three were making a desperate attempt to flee their war
ravaged town Kobani, which is in the midst of heavy fighting between Kurdish
fighters and ISIS. Their boats from Turkish coast capsized overnight enroute to
Kos, Greece.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As a parent, as a father, I could not bear to see the
pictures. For a long long time I could not get a grasp around myself. How should
I react to it? I just do not know. I don’t know what else to do with it other
than write. I mourn this existence. I mourn my helplessness, in my
inconsequential ways, which no way can make the plight of many more Aylan’s
better: A boy who deserved to live.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The story goes like…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once upon a time there was a boy. He lived in a village that
no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of the field
that no longer exists; where he rode through the woods on a brown ox; where fairy
tales had been his first experience of a magical world. A stick that could be a
sword, a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, a castle. In the widest imagination
of his secret world, the possibilities were vast and many. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The magic dragon would come and play in spring time, while
summers were spent in open fields. The thought of water would tickle a glint in
his naughty eyes, while he would rush to throw himself in. In the autumn light,
his air shone like a King’s crown. He would shake the soot off his pockets and
scratch his butt and wipe his nose, all the time. He jumped and jostled in and
out from a meagre hut his parents lived in. A pause in the day’s occupation of
his mother would be his smile. The one that lasted till the last glint rays of
a setting sun would perch through the sills of a window that faced their
garden, where he would eat his dinner from a terracotta bowl, at the howling of
dogs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Once upon a time there was a boy, who threw his arms open in
the lap of his father. A man used to grief and grey clouds, battered by the
vagaries of war, he would thrill at the thunder of his golden locks and shake
the dust of his feet, while standing on a ground too good to last, too solid to
be true. He could sense craters but kept quiet. The boy’s innocent smile
carried hopes from some other world; he had no idea of, yet he believed. They
collected the world in their handfuls, this father and son duo. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Once upon a time there was a boy, whose laughter was a leaflet; who shook us from the pits of hells. He said up in the heaven they got harps in arm pits and dangling panpipes that blow a bugle. They are plotting and planning here. This dinghy rowing in this sea is too small for a world I imagined. They climb into my turret he protested, while the fairies devour me with kisses. There was a whisper and<br />
then a silence. He broke the walls. Aylan knows that a thread of a story, stitches a wound.<br />
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And so he died… and we cried.<br />
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While the loss of this child and pictures being widely shared over social media have stirred a hornet’s nest, yet I could not stop myself from keeping the political side out of it. The abject silence of the Arab world in this matter is a rude reminder to all the self-righteous Muslims who claim tall about Ummah and Khilafat. Come out of this utopian dream. We leave no attempt in admonishing the west and its policies against Muslims at large. While it is this same west that opened its borders to these refugees. No Saudi Arabia, no UAE, no Qatar. Yes, the so called Kuffars’s have come to their rescue. What does this speak about us? Not that I had ever any hope from this petro dollar economy. Zing zany roads and glittery buildings. You have a cold heart. Let Aylan sleep somewhere, where it’s warm.<br />
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“Yes, there is a Nirvanah in putting your child to sleep,” says Kahlil Gibran. </div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-31671842833095061102015-07-09T14:09:00.000+04:002015-07-09T14:22:27.480+04:00Delhi Sultanate of India.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Mahmud Ghazni; Turk Invader (971-1030)<br />
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Muhammad of Ghor: Ghurid Dynasty near Afghanistan (1149-1206)<br />
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Muhammad Ghori appointed Qutubuddin Aibak as ruler. The rulers who ruled Delhi between the period 1206-90 A.D. are popularly known as Slave dynasty. But neither of them belonged to one dynasty. Qutubuddin Aibak was the founder of the Qutubi dynasty, lltutmish that of Shamsi dynasty and Balban of Balbani dynasty. They were also called the llbafi Turks or the Mameluk Sultans of Delhi.</div>
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Qutubuddin Aibak (1206-1210 A.D.)</div>
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Shamsuddin lltutmish (1210-36 A.D.)</div>
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Sultana Raziya (1236-40 A.D.)</div>
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Balban (1246-86 A.D.)</div>
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Khilji Dynasty (1290 - 1320 AD. Ruler of Khilji Dynasty was Jalaluddin Khilji)</div>
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Tuglaq Dynasty (1320-1412) Ghazi Malik.</div>
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Timurid Dynasty.Timur (1336-1405 A.D.) was a great military commander and conqueror of Central Asia. He conquered one kingdom after another. In course of a fight, his one leg was wounded and he limped for the rest of his life. Thereafter he came to be known as Timur-the Lame. The Persians called him ‘Timur-i-Lang’<br />
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Timur, a Turk, invaded India in 1398 during the reign of Muhammad Shah Tughlaq , the last ruler of Tughlaq dynasty. His army mercilessely sacked and plundered Dellhi. Timur returned to Central Asia, leaving a nominee to rule to Punjab which ended the Tughlaq dynasty. He was the great great great grandfather of Babur.<br />
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Sayeed Dynasty (1413-1451)</div>
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Lodhi Dynasty (1451-1526)</div>
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Mughal Dynasty (1526-1857)</div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-11481911908911570692015-07-09T14:00:00.004+04:002015-07-09T14:00:55.931+04:00Mahmud Ghazni (971-1030AD)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Mahmud Ghazni's Invasions of India<br />
Venue: Various Parts of India<br />
Year: 1000-1027 AD<br />
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In 998 AD, the Turkish conqueror, Mahmud of Ghazni, succeeded his father, and established a huge empire in Central Asia, with capital at Ghazni, the present-day South Kabul. He was 27 years old then and the first ruler to get the title as "Sultan", which means authority, thereby implying his power and strength. For 17 times, he attacked India during the period between 1000 and 1027 AD, a significant event in the history of India.<br />
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<b>The reasons that led to the invasions</b><br />
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Mahmud of Ghazni had started his invasions in India during the period when the Rajput power had declined. The two main reasons that led to the conquest of India by Mahmud Ghazni was firstly, to accumulate the vast amount of wealth that existed in India, and secondly, to spread Islam. Another reason was that he wanted to transform Ghazni, his capital city, into a region of formidable power in the entire Central Asia's political scenario.<br />
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He raided India for the first time in 1000 AD. After that, he is said to have conquered India 17 times, till his death. He was resisted by King Jaipal and then by his son Anandpal but both of them were defeated. Between 1009 AD and 1026 AD, the places that Mahmud of Ghazni invaded were Kabul, Delhi, Kanauj, Mathura, Kangra, Thaneshwar, Kashmir, Gwalior, Malwa, Bundelkhand, Tripuri, Bengal and Punjab. He died in 1030 AD, and before his death, his last invasion of India was in 1027 AD. In 1027 AD, he invaded the Somnath temple in Gujarat, on the coast of Saurashtra or Kathiwar. This was supposed to be his biggest invasion as he had looted all treasures and precious items of the fortified temple.<br />
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<b>Strength of the warring forces</b><br />
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Mahmud Ghazni's invaders were more of fast moving cavalry, while the Indian armies were mainly of elephants. The army of Rajputs, no doubt, evolved during the Mughal rule, which was also appreciated by the Mughals. But this expansion and evolution of the Rajput's army was nothing in comparison to the Turkish invaders and could not keep pace with the military tactics and troops of Mahmud Ghazni.<br />
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<b>Aftermath of the battle: winner and loser</b><br />
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Obviously, the clear winner was Mahmud Ghazni. It is said that he always attacked India during the hot summer seasons and with the onset of monsoons, would go back to Ghazni, the reason being, he wanted to avoid the flooding rivers of Punjab, so that his forces won't get trapped there. In all his 17 invasions, a number of dynasties were conquered by him.<br />
<br />First invasion of Mahmud Ghazni in 1000 AD : Mahmud of Ghazni first invaded modern Afghanistan and Pakistan in 1000 AD. He defeated Hindu shahi kingdom ruler Jaya Pala, who killed himself later, and his son Ananda Pala became his successor.<br />
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1005 : Ghazni invaded Bhatia.<br />
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1006 : Ghazni invaded Multan. During this time, Ananda Pala attacked him.<br />
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1007 : Mahmud of Ghazni attacked and crushed Sukha Pala, ruler of Bhatinda.<br />
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1011 : Ghazni raided Nagarkot in the Punjab hills.<br />
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1013 : This was Mahmud's 8th expedition into Pakistan and Eastern Afghanistan, the shahi kingdom under Anand Pala, who was defeated by Ghazni in the Battle of Waihind, the Hind shahi capital near Peshawar.<br />
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1014 : Thanesar was conquered by Mahmud.<br />
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1015 : Kashmir was attacked by Mahmud.<br />
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1018 : He attacked Mathura, where a number of coalition of rulers were defeated, including a ruler called Chandra Pala.<br />
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1021 : Mahmud conquered Kanauj by defeating Kanauj King Chandella Ganda. In the same year he defeated and killed two more rulers, Shahi Trilochana Pala and his son Bhima Pala, thereby conquering Rahib and Lahore (modern Pakistan).<br />
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1023 : Gwalior was invaded and conquered by Ghazni.<br />
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Last invasion of Mahmud Ghazni, 1027 : In 1027, he attacked the Somnath temple. The brave Hindu Rajputs tried to defend the temple when the enemy tried to get inside it. The Hindus fought very bravely and initially the enemies could not damage the temple. However, after 3 days of fights, Mahmud Ghazni's troops were successful in plundering the Somnath temple, in which the sacred idol, Linga was destroyed. Ghazni looted all the treasures of the temple, which was at that time worth 20-million Dinars, more than eighty times of what he had collected in his first invasion. Around 5000 Hindus died during this last invasion.<br />
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<b>The larger implications of the battle </b><br />
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Mahmud's invasions of India were no doubt bloody. He was a ruthless raider and plunderer of wealth.<br />
In each invasion of an Indian dynasty, he carried back vast wealth with him. Places like Mathura, Kanauj, Thaneshwar were transformed into ruins. The demolition of the Shiva temple at Somnath earned him tremendous hatred of many Hindus. He looted the wealth of the temples and then destroyed them completely at various places such as Jwalamukhi, Maheshwar, Narunkot and Dwarka.<br />
Though his invasions did not show any systematic effort to conquer the subcontinent, they led to the foundation of the Turkish rule in India and his conquest opened the gates of India to be conquered from the Northwest.<br />
<br />Mahmud Ghazni built a large empire covering Samarkand in the north, Gujarat in the south, Punjab in the east and Caspian sea in the west. His empire included Persia, Afghanistan, Trans-oxyana, and Punjab. He was considered a great Islamic Hero.<br />
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<b>The overall place and significance of the invasions in Indian history</b><br />
<br />The 17 invasions of India undertaken by Ghazni, one after the other, revealed the Indian rulers' military weakness. These invasions also disclosed how the Rajput rulers had no political unity among themselves. These conquests proved that the Muslims were superior to Hindus in the field of war, discipline and duty. With Ghazni's invasions, the economic condition of India weakened.<br />
<br />Huge wealth was looted out of the country. The resources of India were drained out by his repeated conquests and India was deprived of her manpower, which also adversely affected the future political scenario of the country. There was a huge setback to Indian arts, architecture and sculpture due to the demolition of idols and temples. Islam also gained a major foothold in India after the attacks. The conquests also led to a growing hatred and fear among the Hindus and the Muslims. However, these conquests also led to the coming of the Sufis or the Muslim saints for more Hindu-Muslim interaction. Ghazni's conquests, especially the inclusion of Punjab and Afghanistan in his kingdom, made the Indian frontiers weak. This made easier for other Afghan and Turkish rulers to enter India into the Gangetic valley at any time. One special mention is of Muhammad Ghori's invasion of India.</div>
Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-30977332680272944652015-07-09T13:56:00.001+04:002015-07-09T13:56:14.100+04:00Rise of Turks in India:<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Foundation of Islamic Rule in India was done by the Turks but not by the Arabs. Although the Arabs were the first Muslim invaders on India, they became insignificant after their initial success and their invasion became a passing episode in the political history of India. The work started by them, however, was carried to completion by the Turks.<br />
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The Turks by then had embraced Islam and had gained control over the Khalifa of Baghdad. They were more aggressive and ambitious than the Arabs. They were brave, bold and determined and were thoroughly materialistic in outlook. In patriotism and fanaticism, they even excelled the Arabs. In fact, they were fit to establish and rule over a vast empire. Disintegrated India became a victim to their ambition.<br />
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The first Turkish invader on India was Sultan Mahmud of Ghazni who was honored by the Khalifa with the titles of Yamin-ud-Doulah (the right-hand of the empire) and Amin-ul-Milat (Custodian of Faith). It is said that at the time when Mahmud was honored by the Khalifa, he took vow to lead every year an expedition against India, the land of the infidels. He tried to fulfill it. In between A.D. 1000 and A.D. 1027, Mahmud had led almost seventeen expeditions to India. Although these expeditions of Mahmud were for the propagation of Islam and destruction of the infidels, his materialistic attitude for this could not be undermined.<br />
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He invaded Indian kingdoms frequently and plundered Indian cities and temples. He took away huge quantity of wealth from India and killed her people in thousands. He made the Shahi kingdom out of existence which had been guarding the north frontiers against foreign invaders. Mahmud also made Punjab and Afghanistan a part of the Ghazni kingdom. But he did not establish an Islamic rule in India.<br />
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The credit of founding a Muslim empire in India does not go either to Muhammad-bin-Qasim or to Mahmud of Ghazni but to Muhammad Ghori, the ruler of Ghur, who succeeded in establishing a Muslim empire in India on a secured footing. Muhammad Ghori was the third Muslim invader of India. He made repeated invasions to India and conquered Punjab, Sind and Multan in some of his initial invasions.<br />
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After this his eyes fell on the powerful Rajput kingdom of Delhi and Ajmer which was then ruled by a young, energetic and dynamic king Prithviraja Chauhan. Muhammad Ghori who was bent upon conquering the whole of Hindustan, met Prithviraja in the first battle of Tarain in 1191 A.D. Muhammad was defeated and wounded in this encounter and had fled away with life.<br />
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In spite of the defeat, Ghori did not give up his Indian ambitions. In the very next year in 1192 A.D he met Prithviraj Chauhan in the battle field of Tarain and fought desperately with tricks and technique. He won the war this time and this was a great victory against a great king of India. Prithviraj was captured and taken as a prisoner.<br />
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The second battle of Tarain is a landmark in the history of India and it heralded Muslim rule in India. After conquering Delhi, Ajmer and Kanauj subsequently, Muhammad Ghori laid the foundation of the Muslim rule in India. But he left the work of its consolidation to Qutub-ud-din Aibak who was his most trusted lieutenant.<br />
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-41302126126287722902015-07-09T13:25:00.000+04:002015-10-25T10:44:01.856+04:00Alexander’s Invasion of India.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Alexander’s Invasion To India.<br />
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From the accounts of historian Plutarch it is gathered that when the Greek hero reached the Hindu Kush, he commanded an army of one lakh and twenty thousand soldiers. With that big army he crossed the Hindu Kush and marched through Swat and Gandhara. The mountainous tribes of those territories offered brave resistance to the invading armies, and fought fiercely to check their advance. But Alexander fought them down with utmost cruelty. He conquered the Swat valley, stormed some forts and subjugated the cities of Nysa and Pushkalavati. The latter named city was very near to modern Peshawar.<br />
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<b>Taxila:</b><br />
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In 326 B.C. the Greek army approached the frontier city of Taxila (which was situated only within ten miles of modern Rawalpindi). It was unfortunate that the king of Taxila, Ambhi, to whom the Greeks called Omphis, did not resist the invaders, but instead opened the gates of his capital to the foreigners. It is known from the accounts of Curtius that Ambhi sent information to Alexander in advance, that he would not fight but offer his submission. As Alexander advanced towards the city, Ambhi kept his word and came out of his capital to receive the invader.<br />
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It is further known that this unusual and unkingly action of king Ambhi was due to his hostility towards the neighbouring kindgoms of Paurava and Abhisara in the east and the north. Ambhi wanted to see the foreigners on his own soil so that his enemies should suffer foreign invasion of their own territories. The action of Ambhi has remained a bad example for all time to come.<br />
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Alexander thus entered Taxila unopposed. Tactfully enough he showed much generosity towards the Taxilan king. It is said that both Alexander and Ambhi offered each other valuable gifts. For the Greek invader the courtesy towards his host was more of a diplomatic nature as he wanted his friendship before proceeding further. To the satisfaction of Alexander, he received presents from Abhisara while in Taxila. While all these things were going on, beyond the frontiers of Taxila, king (Purushottam) Porus or Paurava was preparing for his resistance to the foreigners and to check their further advance inside the Indian landmass.<br />
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<b>Alexander and Porus: The Battle of Hydaspes (Jhelum) 326 B.C:</b><br />
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King Porus was a man of gigantic and powerful body, and was gifted with heroic virtues. Brave and courageous, and having the strength of mind and conviction, he was angry at the conduct of the king of Taxila, and stood determined to defend his country against the invasion of the Greeks. As Alexander marched eastward from Taxila, on the other side of the river Vitasta or Jhelum, which the Greeks called Hydaspes, king Porus stood with his forces to face the invasion. His army contained 30,000 foot soldiers, 4,000 soldiers on horse, 300 chariots, and 200 elephants.<br />
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Porus kept his elephant force in front of the infantry, and placed the cavalry forces on either side with chariots in their front. For the first time, the Greeks were surprised to find in the Indian elephant force, standing in lines like huge walls, a terrifying war machine before which the Macedonian Phalanx paled into insignificance.<br />
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The river Jhelum separated the Greek and the Indian sides as the opposing forces stood on its opposite banks. It was the month of May when the melting of the Himalayan snows made the river swollen with flood. Alexander saw the army of Porus from his side of the bank, and could not take courage to attack it straight away or immediately. For several weeks he delayed the invasion during which he thought of various tactics to deceive the enemy. Night after night he caused false shows of attack and of the crossing of the river.<br />
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Arrian described the strategy of the Greeks in the following way:<br />
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“The cavalry was led along the bank in various directions, making a clamour and raising the battle cry – as if they were making all preparations for crossing the river. When this had occurred frequently…, Porus no longer continued to move about also; but, perceiving his fear had been groundless, he kept his position.”<br />
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Alexander planned to take the enemy by total surprise. To his luck, there came a night of severe storms on the Jhelum, with the roaring sounds of clouds and furies of rains. That stormy dark night, Alexander left his camp and proceeded with his army about 17 miles upward on the bank. There, taking advantage of a sharp bend of the river and the existence of an island in the water, he crossed to the other bank, unnoticed by the enemy. According to Arrian, “The noise of the thunder drowned with its din the clatter of the weapons.”<br />
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Having crossed the river in night Alexander advanced to fall upon the enemy from behind. Porus was taken by complete surprise. Added to that military tragedy, and to his misfortune, the Nature went against him in that fateful battle. The rains of the previous night had left the river bank muddy. Making the wheels of the chariots immobile, Porus first sent his son with a force to check the enemy march. But the prince fell dead with his soldiers while fighting hard.<br />
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When the Macedonian cavarly forces came in swiftly, the chariots of Porus could not run in speed on the mud to face them. The archers on the Indian side who used their long bows by pressing one end of the bow on the ground, found the soil too soft for their strong action. They could not thus shower their arrows on the enemy.<br />
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The infantry too could not fight on the watery ground. Worst of all, the huge elephants of Porus became useless in action, unable to run on the mud. When wounded by arrows from Greek mounted archers, those furious animals created havoc amidst their own soldiers instead of rushing at the enemies. Among the madly behaving elephants, and on muddy ground, the cavalry forces of Porus also could not fight in an effective manner.<br />
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Overtaken by Alexander’s tricks and betrayed by Nature, Porus found his cause hopeless, but decided to fight till the last. Riding a huge elephant, he went on fighting as his soldiers were losing the battle and scattering in all directions. He received several wounds, but did not think of escape. A severe wound on his body finally brought to an end the valiant struggle of Porus against his formidable foes. The Battle of Hydaspes was won by the Greeks.<br />
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Alexander was surprised at the valour of his great foe. When, after the battle, the vanquished Porus was brought before the victor, he was as heroic as he was in the battle. A proud Alexander asked him how he would like to be treated. Porus demanded bravely that “He should be treated as a King”.<br />
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A hero as Alexander was, he greatly admired the courage of a hero. As it is known from the Greek accounts Alexander “not only granted him the rule over his own Indians but also added another country of larger extent than the former to what he had before. Thus he treated the brave man in a kingly way”. The heroic role of Porus was a glorious episode of the Greek invasion of India. A small king though he was, he gave a good example of fighting the foreigners for the freedom of the land.<br />
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-51040511956128490282015-07-01T15:28:00.001+04:002015-10-25T10:59:35.316+04:00Kashmir and Delhi: Summer of 2015-II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late afternoon; nun chai, pampori Shirmaal and Kulche.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two decades back, I would refuse to call it home. Home for me meant Khanyar. No other place could replace it. And now, with all memories that I look back through this house- of my grandfather and grandmother, this is home. No other place like. We humans are entwined.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rabab player and folk singer Noor Mohammad.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zohan, my naughty nephew.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Quencha tent I brought for Za and our Kidney parties in the garden. The duo of Mamu and nephew love our fried lamb kidneys.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUe6eR31n7N7YfT0SMFXRL4h82-BAKoZhWeS4yNisScSQY3w7LJ2NNGIulabmk01N339_vWPmiu_D1r-Uo4JBSJ_KYkXlRsemvyUyq6rLWM0WwEzOSE_nR2svaPLj28M4IfDJwteYmip20/s1600/IMG_2987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUe6eR31n7N7YfT0SMFXRL4h82-BAKoZhWeS4yNisScSQY3w7LJ2NNGIulabmk01N339_vWPmiu_D1r-Uo4JBSJ_KYkXlRsemvyUyq6rLWM0WwEzOSE_nR2svaPLj28M4IfDJwteYmip20/s200/IMG_2987.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rose plucked from my garden and Hemingway.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PCmdchd4aJza-Wgoq-N7qdQmcobcdbhsDsEq7hIkw1Mp-Xw4NdQPyL04I_YpDcWQlCews4ubIX17ORJRnSTE2peMqNLgNRMc-m50TMnuuLH2UqswEXO1zO0HF7WNptNPHmy7mRwLjRVX/s1600/IMG_3129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PCmdchd4aJza-Wgoq-N7qdQmcobcdbhsDsEq7hIkw1Mp-Xw4NdQPyL04I_YpDcWQlCews4ubIX17ORJRnSTE2peMqNLgNRMc-m50TMnuuLH2UqswEXO1zO0HF7WNptNPHmy7mRwLjRVX/s200/IMG_3129.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Akhter and pakora chai at Peer Zoo restaurant.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIuROlQehpcGrIU_pG_e1cZ_YxM7aDknvOPUlcmOvaiFRlpzqrRAS7y-y2jkuCjKgFB0eWwQ9rtXMBGB5Hd-85W4m_t8YyvG0lCcfMsOktlagb7mqmtOdLpdl94ukRIwIrHPRk8Xz-iOOE/s1600/IMG_3130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIuROlQehpcGrIU_pG_e1cZ_YxM7aDknvOPUlcmOvaiFRlpzqrRAS7y-y2jkuCjKgFB0eWwQ9rtXMBGB5Hd-85W4m_t8YyvG0lCcfMsOktlagb7mqmtOdLpdl94ukRIwIrHPRk8Xz-iOOE/s200/IMG_3130.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful sunsets at Peer Zoo. Though the quality of tea and eateries is a let down, but views such as this recompense. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_unT6JuR7Emlp9rRoiVWz-C-4W0saP81bSWpiChEL-dxJXiq9XRdrir_RRuymiuWHEpOut8SOqBuuk_k_SzLUdkauXZ19f90Z-Ex80vqNtlUEtocx9vziZFvSgmt-0H_1kzYOPjZcWSd/s1600/IMG_3159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_unT6JuR7Emlp9rRoiVWz-C-4W0saP81bSWpiChEL-dxJXiq9XRdrir_RRuymiuWHEpOut8SOqBuuk_k_SzLUdkauXZ19f90Z-Ex80vqNtlUEtocx9vziZFvSgmt-0H_1kzYOPjZcWSd/s200/IMG_3159.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The corridors of what we used to call Nov makaan (new house). My Mamu's house.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9tl7SnCMVvBierP-th257EyCP_wTkW3RNxOGDby28WhZtZzEMPIHd8N31NWR5tgW-mkyZSxohhUoVfE-EaH6lBaG4UpFQXWFL0hm9aDLsDnJb4q-YWrqG8L9OipM4t0XU8wOvlvzJRaV/s1600/IMG_3163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9tl7SnCMVvBierP-th257EyCP_wTkW3RNxOGDby28WhZtZzEMPIHd8N31NWR5tgW-mkyZSxohhUoVfE-EaH6lBaG4UpFQXWFL0hm9aDLsDnJb4q-YWrqG8L9OipM4t0XU8wOvlvzJRaV/s200/IMG_3163.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The plush galleries of Nov Makaan and the Khatamband.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7cuANqfhWMXI9hdZ_QTOuWQJwns6aoYEpLVvENqvA7JckCRHTYbm_P1_M31SMXmLQn_XSoZtisYXEgIfjNv42HA_OzTrlKxHkPiydKvhd9kVAcH-YDXPJun7SLF8a_Si_OFifnKKFALlK/s1600/IMG_3169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7cuANqfhWMXI9hdZ_QTOuWQJwns6aoYEpLVvENqvA7JckCRHTYbm_P1_M31SMXmLQn_XSoZtisYXEgIfjNv42HA_OzTrlKxHkPiydKvhd9kVAcH-YDXPJun7SLF8a_Si_OFifnKKFALlK/s200/IMG_3169.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My ancestral house. Built by Khwaja Siddiq Gundroo in early 19th century. </td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkObqwoHvcrnFQws0nabFKDa29Z-CYlHnAQ5jQy6Zm_b6Vbxsn39SGUhuvQvYRTysylzbDjVMNbCowT6rUzly7Kk4Q36Y-NuPiqZpkkQ_Yy9lxNSW0TndmelOIOLMVfcTXr4XFYptl1UZj/s1600/IMG_3184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkObqwoHvcrnFQws0nabFKDa29Z-CYlHnAQ5jQy6Zm_b6Vbxsn39SGUhuvQvYRTysylzbDjVMNbCowT6rUzly7Kk4Q36Y-NuPiqZpkkQ_Yy9lxNSW0TndmelOIOLMVfcTXr4XFYptl1UZj/s200/IMG_3184.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The downtown boys- with Khalid near 14th Avenue, Rajbagh.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvoawqjrIoDc5J1WT2cMLJek81KjqQHsgLIqBR7jbllUd1b4eRH_pf-BNjOqnreLCpXECQEHxo9ce-WiIlofNtRrWkVOzhjZoRFtqMLunSdMAXN78Sq2PrUnhnn0SBEycs2PAxqfDixIp/s1600/IMG_3220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvoawqjrIoDc5J1WT2cMLJek81KjqQHsgLIqBR7jbllUd1b4eRH_pf-BNjOqnreLCpXECQEHxo9ce-WiIlofNtRrWkVOzhjZoRFtqMLunSdMAXN78Sq2PrUnhnn0SBEycs2PAxqfDixIp/s200/IMG_3220.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The batte gully- Food street, Lal chowk.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtEYFNAFW9BLH0M6bjIdtiKmeui85mESztRXKTVPwLAxnqhYRwREAoNiZ9K_dgrgniPgg9c0mPBwCpv0re-Zlisne52DfH5tFC-1JeizKUpPHUcLrraTvTIGNdeclGQNJPLI2XJIbdu6g/s1600/IMG_3225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtEYFNAFW9BLH0M6bjIdtiKmeui85mESztRXKTVPwLAxnqhYRwREAoNiZ9K_dgrgniPgg9c0mPBwCpv0re-Zlisne52DfH5tFC-1JeizKUpPHUcLrraTvTIGNdeclGQNJPLI2XJIbdu6g/s200/IMG_3225.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nadir monje from Sonwar and liptop chai.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJYY5zq2W2UCl8rofvDELJnAn3Qb_C96eiswsbt6eIUBQdhoWdkF-tZNmps1uUQ6VI9EJokbkXcqS-Xl2oFobcb6Zs3O7YXONi6oa5lbv01wxjaNw4yTbjkjwWc2NNrDfQLM4Pyi_rGFds/s1600/IMG_3233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJYY5zq2W2UCl8rofvDELJnAn3Qb_C96eiswsbt6eIUBQdhoWdkF-tZNmps1uUQ6VI9EJokbkXcqS-Xl2oFobcb6Zs3O7YXONi6oa5lbv01wxjaNw4yTbjkjwWc2NNrDfQLM4Pyi_rGFds/s200/IMG_3233.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selfie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsd7q-MIKrMoOVi-v4hNDIjanIuNUVb8xz6XAHEgnSLqiQpMZGcT5V0hBeYVxxodsLLTh_X2pIdKfyBKpOQ62-TgQ3dBygGOFxG7m8oq9JPn7f2venuRfriJKEhp5MOFkkAYK7THz0538/s1600/IMG_3241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsd7q-MIKrMoOVi-v4hNDIjanIuNUVb8xz6XAHEgnSLqiQpMZGcT5V0hBeYVxxodsLLTh_X2pIdKfyBKpOQ62-TgQ3dBygGOFxG7m8oq9JPn7f2venuRfriJKEhp5MOFkkAYK7THz0538/s200/IMG_3241.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The historic bund. High school drama.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFmAx6arrgyDlpulIF7w1B2QGdX9-FQyA19eGxNN2D-54gk-NWgq4i9YyMYLFTqBBS3inhjI7rPkAuIUSnSHNeyMy7hpZM3YJR8LxfP78OfrXUe0EKkk7lBqXi_Nere6WUf93lQh7QMEg/s1600/IMG_3245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFmAx6arrgyDlpulIF7w1B2QGdX9-FQyA19eGxNN2D-54gk-NWgq4i9YyMYLFTqBBS3inhjI7rPkAuIUSnSHNeyMy7hpZM3YJR8LxfP78OfrXUe0EKkk7lBqXi_Nere6WUf93lQh7QMEg/s200/IMG_3245.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The erstwhile Grindlays Bank.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7e15VFToQKppIiGUX1s1BmbD-ZIxKumllh50eRUuSlJ894Xf4-tsfoVTNKY_sdisMrm8QwRezC2QY-Y6Zj02piYgdIxDfueB-L5pD7c5wxlnwdJtKhageOvzNYHiETQm6huNrXkDcc0H/s1600/IMG_3253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7e15VFToQKppIiGUX1s1BmbD-ZIxKumllh50eRUuSlJ894Xf4-tsfoVTNKY_sdisMrm8QwRezC2QY-Y6Zj02piYgdIxDfueB-L5pD7c5wxlnwdJtKhageOvzNYHiETQm6huNrXkDcc0H/s200/IMG_3253.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old friends from school.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0EdP7RNBTVCUGlWbtQYlx_Rzr6ed5c6r8aE0MHoo-E9Ua_W99pDkNFj2Ykqe7hKmBL95fMNYUFr4yDvlUHkG4qmDHaDcyAPUj0bRimjZPLeVYZuJl5FbWwcessHgzcUm2ZAC5slxYQQw/s1600/IMG_3256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0EdP7RNBTVCUGlWbtQYlx_Rzr6ed5c6r8aE0MHoo-E9Ua_W99pDkNFj2Ykqe7hKmBL95fMNYUFr4yDvlUHkG4qmDHaDcyAPUj0bRimjZPLeVYZuJl5FbWwcessHgzcUm2ZAC5slxYQQw/s200/IMG_3256.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An old architectural marvel in downtown Srinagar.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68Dl7QgsmWYQ4LwCGZfGRpfJeF-D04f09DvCFd8VfOxMMTTTgIcnMsRQ2E0iPqFGRHOcu_jrkCnbTGKIY0vsxfubAJUMv2gf2lqTNyl44JhXpheBDzvy8FBJNSs2XQEr4oxpSLcAkqfLR/s1600/IMG_3257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68Dl7QgsmWYQ4LwCGZfGRpfJeF-D04f09DvCFd8VfOxMMTTTgIcnMsRQ2E0iPqFGRHOcu_jrkCnbTGKIY0vsxfubAJUMv2gf2lqTNyl44JhXpheBDzvy8FBJNSs2XQEr4oxpSLcAkqfLR/s200/IMG_3257.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The shrine of Shah-i-Hamdaan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmfLii92YA7nfCI4NZhrVayY6aUWEzrlQBVWuBFpVUiHhCiZO-Hxq-c4rFBoSgelGUy6cQC7zDUSpimuEpxld4tLtt9NS9FdfABx81E07MnVUk-IGkErlIIrfxnZjuzHW0EIxfKWdoCGKc/s1600/IMG_3273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmfLii92YA7nfCI4NZhrVayY6aUWEzrlQBVWuBFpVUiHhCiZO-Hxq-c4rFBoSgelGUy6cQC7zDUSpimuEpxld4tLtt9NS9FdfABx81E07MnVUk-IGkErlIIrfxnZjuzHW0EIxfKWdoCGKc/s200/IMG_3273.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A man praying near Hujre khaas. The place where Amir Kabir used to meditate.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBMXOcvr1dA7pVonc9HS64bW8o1hIAr6mMXzpMHTfI6bwm9hLUwiX78y_qOCRdal9s5dM0l6kdTE4Tzs7ghUed35CXhnibAikgsYrcBRN9Ap74o8FpAeCXBFlLMxr6bbIJolyYIZcl2Ao/s1600/IMG_3275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBMXOcvr1dA7pVonc9HS64bW8o1hIAr6mMXzpMHTfI6bwm9hLUwiX78y_qOCRdal9s5dM0l6kdTE4Tzs7ghUed35CXhnibAikgsYrcBRN9Ap74o8FpAeCXBFlLMxr6bbIJolyYIZcl2Ao/s200/IMG_3275.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9gWMTjXRjLNDPXl66Yrx0pQAg9CLVYyzpT1QZvbpTT7J_2iN976YqEaCS18Ui0GkfMq8dNhzc32HgnUMmBZM0l8xxoFPDdq_OaHcb0_9EWHfu9YawukcyLOl5S3r7Y8LlxZuqcf0-xmc/s1600/IMG_3279.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9gWMTjXRjLNDPXl66Yrx0pQAg9CLVYyzpT1QZvbpTT7J_2iN976YqEaCS18Ui0GkfMq8dNhzc32HgnUMmBZM0l8xxoFPDdq_OaHcb0_9EWHfu9YawukcyLOl5S3r7Y8LlxZuqcf0-xmc/s200/IMG_3279.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zum Zum in the brass container.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNTXQAnaDWvsnkCswxhUGEI-Yx84AfKcAmhH-aaiI5IWgocaph6WCztH47v46YjhhK4GTrVRkrGs-VES3_Twm3cOwHIkVeM2yN_p4RC7WBqWXkABzAY-6_2RGBGbMQC6RlrQ4EaxC369a/s1600/IMG_3285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNTXQAnaDWvsnkCswxhUGEI-Yx84AfKcAmhH-aaiI5IWgocaph6WCztH47v46YjhhK4GTrVRkrGs-VES3_Twm3cOwHIkVeM2yN_p4RC7WBqWXkABzAY-6_2RGBGbMQC6RlrQ4EaxC369a/s200/IMG_3285.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hujre-khaas. Notice the delicate paper machie on walls.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDk3LGT89VmrIp_Qq5gW0-uWAGOWRAhQIjU0K02X4JcxrrK4RktJhDnIh9IzrOBjGLs_zVG7cD6EdL9Vr_YTlx1nAFltJjWelLdu_8Ry38okADqx_klaXTwpp3RcfNno2THpjW5G42k-h/s1600/IMG_3290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDk3LGT89VmrIp_Qq5gW0-uWAGOWRAhQIjU0K02X4JcxrrK4RktJhDnIh9IzrOBjGLs_zVG7cD6EdL9Vr_YTlx1nAFltJjWelLdu_8Ry38okADqx_klaXTwpp3RcfNno2THpjW5G42k-h/s200/IMG_3290.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi010I6HmsjdhPf-Y9DPUPfUHIgEpAuCmAofHdMlutiekQv8H0fHQCKcLJYjrmCGJLbmJIq_qBrP0wDgfRi806LWW5BS-YhUQCt3NK71NcKENZP_rUizy38ybzkgB2J1Cf4QRyVUqqWP8WF/s1600/IMG_3298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi010I6HmsjdhPf-Y9DPUPfUHIgEpAuCmAofHdMlutiekQv8H0fHQCKcLJYjrmCGJLbmJIq_qBrP0wDgfRi806LWW5BS-YhUQCt3NK71NcKENZP_rUizy38ybzkgB2J1Cf4QRyVUqqWP8WF/s200/IMG_3298.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The baroque wood work one of the old city structures.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5D3Ojgalm9iKNXQveLMktx8MUBBoQ6p15Od9mRxoOJUt6Jzg2ApCTp_sWKhZkJO7vpGIKXD8E2zXkzdzrrVo8HzO8iL_Jt8nXn49HGPK0kOk9Sj6jg7FzRwcHSRFRos0vRIm68ze59dU/s1600/IMG_3301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5D3Ojgalm9iKNXQveLMktx8MUBBoQ6p15Od9mRxoOJUt6Jzg2ApCTp_sWKhZkJO7vpGIKXD8E2zXkzdzrrVo8HzO8iL_Jt8nXn49HGPK0kOk9Sj6jg7FzRwcHSRFRos0vRIm68ze59dU/s200/IMG_3301.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laborers Gafoor and Rafiq from Shupiyan, outside Dastgir Sahib shrine.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqnwE-jHfxgE8MF4LU1X3uBm1H3-XQdjJdohQ_KiWVtK4ASPJx9O5RThjGYTA3qskz704GYS9KRV7Zk3lCSEeRYa3zkMOnOUzWyMdArc7qVI5W86L_R1AG1s6lOojUz8AgpY_3c6qaOMgV/s1600/IMG_3305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqnwE-jHfxgE8MF4LU1X3uBm1H3-XQdjJdohQ_KiWVtK4ASPJx9O5RThjGYTA3qskz704GYS9KRV7Zk3lCSEeRYa3zkMOnOUzWyMdArc7qVI5W86L_R1AG1s6lOojUz8AgpY_3c6qaOMgV/s200/IMG_3305.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Insanely mouth watery stuff- the quintessential Masal Tzot. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRN12dV38PJzvzIOGqx3xRk7ZXfgnd5qmxJQ_yaDUB8mntphCO-GM5YBH7HgV627elmjfY0odGu1eRxf3_4-yhu46wAT1HnQGe8UyFGl1wzLWu985IQ6_ssF2GQvkS_LAz4VYz20DXHVGC/s1600/IMG_3307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRN12dV38PJzvzIOGqx3xRk7ZXfgnd5qmxJQ_yaDUB8mntphCO-GM5YBH7HgV627elmjfY0odGu1eRxf3_4-yhu46wAT1HnQGe8UyFGl1wzLWu985IQ6_ssF2GQvkS_LAz4VYz20DXHVGC/s200/IMG_3307.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our ancentral graveyard. The oldest grave belonging to my great great great great Grandfather- Khwaja Siddiq Gundroo, who died in 1818.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIX8aCIxG5Vq67RW0fxGxiR1D3as1umfN-i1qn3F395eGhTmlIGQykyhA9apPjGdSwzUHunbpcIPaDgIoPmhRMchHQa2hFTwN65TIUt7lkBipYURp17uJ2YO6k9rPyEubN-sAcS4MyBJm/s1600/IMG_3333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIX8aCIxG5Vq67RW0fxGxiR1D3as1umfN-i1qn3F395eGhTmlIGQykyhA9apPjGdSwzUHunbpcIPaDgIoPmhRMchHQa2hFTwN65TIUt7lkBipYURp17uJ2YO6k9rPyEubN-sAcS4MyBJm/s200/IMG_3333.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Badam waer, with Za and Shabana my sister.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJsDE2q6kXAo3PBakEMSydxFXVUhPbfkWeNFefE4F5MLll-DYa9wdUgSo9z_56bdOdVhEmf1Fk-D-b4y98c8MCbEFNbmCSbLYxOEs5alJwM5r-PDsSwlc2NHKr1TTG0np9aIFSp2YMbwO/s1600/IMG_3351.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJsDE2q6kXAo3PBakEMSydxFXVUhPbfkWeNFefE4F5MLll-DYa9wdUgSo9z_56bdOdVhEmf1Fk-D-b4y98c8MCbEFNbmCSbLYxOEs5alJwM5r-PDsSwlc2NHKr1TTG0np9aIFSp2YMbwO/s200/IMG_3351.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrFhLH_FJmW07CAf7Z1XxeDxhtPfbnQWA97HzVIKQY6dJ-kfGrDung6qgBVeFGmBmPqXyURuVPvF5jLrvKibrnAe_t9_Ic34ZYUfkzJuC5EdgWS4s_D4VrrwDiamy8PoNRUSDJ69KAcpR/s1600/IMG_3356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrFhLH_FJmW07CAf7Z1XxeDxhtPfbnQWA97HzVIKQY6dJ-kfGrDung6qgBVeFGmBmPqXyURuVPvF5jLrvKibrnAe_t9_Ic34ZYUfkzJuC5EdgWS4s_D4VrrwDiamy8PoNRUSDJ69KAcpR/s200/IMG_3356.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kaeth Darwaz, built around the Hari Parbat fort in Akbar's time.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOft3QaaoaYAmUPp06LBSRJnQw1LCuJ7f_AJ7lMrxO5luYNCEqnsJ1CtTV8pcJao3GUmMWPgs4O-cIVhMhJyEFcXmaVpVRnuFjpAxYLenu5fNoCMWsVvLfoXoaJB6j2N1QZDf59fxX8oZ/s1600/IMG_3362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOft3QaaoaYAmUPp06LBSRJnQw1LCuJ7f_AJ7lMrxO5luYNCEqnsJ1CtTV8pcJao3GUmMWPgs4O-cIVhMhJyEFcXmaVpVRnuFjpAxYLenu5fNoCMWsVvLfoXoaJB6j2N1QZDf59fxX8oZ/s200/IMG_3362.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5FOcQ1HlJbjOjIE8oNh0AaT-N3C5H4sE6z54LgfPS5cLiufPIhdIWkIrWuVTAbAkQ1TSL7qazX5rfynAwGMmDG3_EIQLbdLKdcp7kPyn13r6s7AgIdl9VKhcia8GN2hMgMlZJexCpkm5Q/s1600/IMG_3385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5FOcQ1HlJbjOjIE8oNh0AaT-N3C5H4sE6z54LgfPS5cLiufPIhdIWkIrWuVTAbAkQ1TSL7qazX5rfynAwGMmDG3_EIQLbdLKdcp7kPyn13r6s7AgIdl9VKhcia8GN2hMgMlZJexCpkm5Q/s200/IMG_3385.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59KQ_I4NDCC2RTQbhsQH5Z0LdXn7oGDihmTC1f0UmUimjYci5mqjuUEIuDyUz3islcbRuj8E2OsaK0fd5eC1WCCjHXk-PF3pGyVyJPPPzh8N7pvT8DzwJhMDWq-IxUJHEY2iaZDJ8qFYu/s1600/IMG_3387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59KQ_I4NDCC2RTQbhsQH5Z0LdXn7oGDihmTC1f0UmUimjYci5mqjuUEIuDyUz3islcbRuj8E2OsaK0fd5eC1WCCjHXk-PF3pGyVyJPPPzh8N7pvT8DzwJhMDWq-IxUJHEY2iaZDJ8qFYu/s200/IMG_3387.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Sumbal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_QTv1de8CRyNb6qZLiDumGxdRiOL7rlZM4G033Et6JeF17aZV28vkCFQSKuSG33LqiC5GnTk-taB89f2pUmJ6q1TQUdVVEMPeMn0xmYWrCJaFL82AvsfdZrEHfw7GLMloau-b7u-qeSk/s1600/IMG_3402.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_QTv1de8CRyNb6qZLiDumGxdRiOL7rlZM4G033Et6JeF17aZV28vkCFQSKuSG33LqiC5GnTk-taB89f2pUmJ6q1TQUdVVEMPeMn0xmYWrCJaFL82AvsfdZrEHfw7GLMloau-b7u-qeSk/s200/IMG_3402.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Akki in his salt and pepper avatar.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTc_EagLcauzrd1CDPMclNnRk8lTe6RCvLbeg_upojV0Y4xtzsCPUswryntI37Mi4Zp6uBHmVQPouczYwJezIJ3wgTD_w6f6GSDz7ta1Emxnj3QFNkJhoXbX4vtPEF3zB0U39CNzbvGn0J/s1600/IMG_3407.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTc_EagLcauzrd1CDPMclNnRk8lTe6RCvLbeg_upojV0Y4xtzsCPUswryntI37Mi4Zp6uBHmVQPouczYwJezIJ3wgTD_w6f6GSDz7ta1Emxnj3QFNkJhoXbX4vtPEF3zB0U39CNzbvGn0J/s200/IMG_3407.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBM4DbkM3LopTPmZjoDEoEUv5Ns1DTqd1e85Ga8r2FTuJJpuY36HwO9HJTErP21LOJLrGrC8oFBVznOq-ZVYeKn_dDazC1Llr9OfI1Aa9khbY9Lj7YYqrHbhxRJc1MtsbAXPBaYn60KVv/s1600/IMG_3414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBM4DbkM3LopTPmZjoDEoEUv5Ns1DTqd1e85Ga8r2FTuJJpuY36HwO9HJTErP21LOJLrGrC8oFBVznOq-ZVYeKn_dDazC1Llr9OfI1Aa9khbY9Lj7YYqrHbhxRJc1MtsbAXPBaYn60KVv/s200/IMG_3414.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The road winding through paddy fields. On way to Tull Mul, Ganderbal.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTehipHM-0tdSju3uzYsZFAbcxi2TKbdXsW8OpBjoB4KD9xihFPo7kakJm3iYme9Huz5LPTyVWyXTkefM3-24u9K1rHuvfvo0vVQJk6gfJtN-rxVFEtwqmmH6yQtNT3x3EkQV88kPCbi7g/s1600/IMG_3424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTehipHM-0tdSju3uzYsZFAbcxi2TKbdXsW8OpBjoB4KD9xihFPo7kakJm3iYme9Huz5LPTyVWyXTkefM3-24u9K1rHuvfvo0vVQJk6gfJtN-rxVFEtwqmmH6yQtNT3x3EkQV88kPCbi7g/s200/IMG_3424.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiOOXUZqGq2n5Lrm5ZURBqJfi5VIYPUrFW0ljfWgZT7Mp3J6sD689-ChY9tCCRBTXNLTqkjA7TwKay4ui5yM0eyybGT-HCJfDnd0IJW_PE9LZxADUlJXWk2BsJ0yIfXPdshLeFcJ5_SN8X/s1600/IMG_3441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiOOXUZqGq2n5Lrm5ZURBqJfi5VIYPUrFW0ljfWgZT7Mp3J6sD689-ChY9tCCRBTXNLTqkjA7TwKay4ui5yM0eyybGT-HCJfDnd0IJW_PE9LZxADUlJXWk2BsJ0yIfXPdshLeFcJ5_SN8X/s200/IMG_3441.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The many green tunnels that you drive through.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2osDACWTrgJ1JQsQGF_PnXaD6ugSuDjgV0EBrYCy81NInCBBG-4ImdTzRlQo9W6d0nMoXS6fi9kf5a3lgiJWBO3qTdESzvXd1xuEWfmsh0vbxHccFpCCbmxOT4DnGTe9L6H4Q9D6BoCGP/s1600/IMG_3452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2osDACWTrgJ1JQsQGF_PnXaD6ugSuDjgV0EBrYCy81NInCBBG-4ImdTzRlQo9W6d0nMoXS6fi9kf5a3lgiJWBO3qTdESzvXd1xuEWfmsh0vbxHccFpCCbmxOT4DnGTe9L6H4Q9D6BoCGP/s200/IMG_3452.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tul Mull spring.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif2HhkL82y0VyXWEdaaolXegQScRCA6lWHBGnaIU8qjbsOwiztPNJFhlJHybAP8GjpkzynWnWVGIGIxfooSCGIjAsx9oBW0rcPC4uSnR-R8fAYk88WGwvRlvbWRhyphenhyphenYG08jR8DBzudYYYnI/s1600/IMG_3463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif2HhkL82y0VyXWEdaaolXegQScRCA6lWHBGnaIU8qjbsOwiztPNJFhlJHybAP8GjpkzynWnWVGIGIxfooSCGIjAsx9oBW0rcPC4uSnR-R8fAYk88WGwvRlvbWRhyphenhyphenYG08jR8DBzudYYYnI/s200/IMG_3463.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The silent Buddha or the pretending Buddha?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgy2DWHoSV4I-iN9XrnpWZlk_DKtTABPr63Nzh2Tr72sy9BoyvS-5RJBDAJ1BwMcth_Z3k6rrUGuTfthnSEECupVVlBV5Mik-942hYMCdnT5EF4ioS7PxtrZTqIP5L8FRdGZfV0cGKsb6/s1600/IMG_3505.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgy2DWHoSV4I-iN9XrnpWZlk_DKtTABPr63Nzh2Tr72sy9BoyvS-5RJBDAJ1BwMcth_Z3k6rrUGuTfthnSEECupVVlBV5Mik-942hYMCdnT5EF4ioS7PxtrZTqIP5L8FRdGZfV0cGKsb6/s200/IMG_3505.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeh kahan agaye hum.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ctw7WKJs1KubHkHaltVEO6scO695AgEJ6jEc5jfN6xM62GrKNKefrPfMmsK9ZiYNFGYjb20rKDBDwN_3u59qkIJxbPDnHHwPOKBigDQJpAWqivazRBmydN624KVA1Pgnh18v7T2zpgQg/s1600/IMG_3517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ctw7WKJs1KubHkHaltVEO6scO695AgEJ6jEc5jfN6xM62GrKNKefrPfMmsK9ZiYNFGYjb20rKDBDwN_3u59qkIJxbPDnHHwPOKBigDQJpAWqivazRBmydN624KVA1Pgnh18v7T2zpgQg/s200/IMG_3517.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You are the man. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0a2PM_sIIrVYNBVEXz3gHlDBFoWTVb5x57CJk-eMc-iTk27Fx6FgWttsYzYbZ2x3lRQs2kEwb7yT-qFbNOdXm3k2YKps1gklzFyRJZ-V8tdJBQteGtiqoWh9VRjJL1wD8aJObYM11sr9/s1600/IMG_3521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0a2PM_sIIrVYNBVEXz3gHlDBFoWTVb5x57CJk-eMc-iTk27Fx6FgWttsYzYbZ2x3lRQs2kEwb7yT-qFbNOdXm3k2YKps1gklzFyRJZ-V8tdJBQteGtiqoWh9VRjJL1wD8aJObYM11sr9/s200/IMG_3521.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do yaar. Puraane yaar.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgT9iS_tvu5jDq7tXZFt0Fntwo-vUjKw7q0PLooVtkrA151V8yCLjw45x7LflA-nH7swQ7tqRNOMi71-64Fa2motB2SDmCfrWKovfKxLSQ6wGdmoG8ATGn7ajP0oXz7JqisNku7A0dayDE/s1600/IMG_3602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgT9iS_tvu5jDq7tXZFt0Fntwo-vUjKw7q0PLooVtkrA151V8yCLjw45x7LflA-nH7swQ7tqRNOMi71-64Fa2motB2SDmCfrWKovfKxLSQ6wGdmoG8ATGn7ajP0oXz7JqisNku7A0dayDE/s200/IMG_3602.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What captivates me about Shalimar is its voyeuristic air. It is believed emperor Jehangir made love to his queen in the open pandalans. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkcAcfRt4sxElGnzcDyDZ9yJntiMwEuH8sAWZjcsa9eCgDX2NvzgUfnkZCFQlH0bMPl-MsE2q3ZqRYhOFQ9oTAncNdqeR767vz-BT0w2RsOPUwtXB3esBlMJOI0wtOC-3PhV0BmuxUWZeX/s1600/IMG_3636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkcAcfRt4sxElGnzcDyDZ9yJntiMwEuH8sAWZjcsa9eCgDX2NvzgUfnkZCFQlH0bMPl-MsE2q3ZqRYhOFQ9oTAncNdqeR767vz-BT0w2RsOPUwtXB3esBlMJOI0wtOC-3PhV0BmuxUWZeX/s200/IMG_3636.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying to do a SRK, Veer Zaara. Mai yahan hon yahan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqtTmHCUsVNqGJcLzuSJNqtiSge04n_JMr65UfDY-oqQ9jehe8WkPaG7L9jGlP_X4dzG8y7BFiurGap33UWUx-X8fAOBR4owypOJ2vQoqMBNfXsto_-vqOmRFvKOWMaTlSXb76Ihh028X/s1600/IMG_3821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqtTmHCUsVNqGJcLzuSJNqtiSge04n_JMr65UfDY-oqQ9jehe8WkPaG7L9jGlP_X4dzG8y7BFiurGap33UWUx-X8fAOBR4owypOJ2vQoqMBNfXsto_-vqOmRFvKOWMaTlSXb76Ihh028X/s200/IMG_3821.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Master Goor, Barbershah.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZHY3uAFDQQ-DjGRN9L5f6VwkruNb5zjqiab3fhQCaMVsZ5qURwRQ4Y_nO1j4x9S1Pxq6xwnt4B66m9loX5MXVGFbWQFFWDhyhIgXYt-2QLkSwnuuyXqR13sCVXBjaQwnz7EK7b1_586a/s1600/IMG_3823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZHY3uAFDQQ-DjGRN9L5f6VwkruNb5zjqiab3fhQCaMVsZ5qURwRQ4Y_nO1j4x9S1Pxq6xwnt4B66m9loX5MXVGFbWQFFWDhyhIgXYt-2QLkSwnuuyXqR13sCVXBjaQwnz7EK7b1_586a/s200/IMG_3823.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matoo House, Barber shah.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMA8ZKyYNJGQNTfx6EB3zMn_Zc75syXyvp7CtUaWr3iFLumpTCfAUWM1q5uoFCkIdArB_8XWAuoAihB1k12d1zyXB1iYxWO4H1yN7iGSLA-yYiUh3bNo6-sIDuL5esef22U5n45uNfQu7/s1600/IMG_3834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMA8ZKyYNJGQNTfx6EB3zMn_Zc75syXyvp7CtUaWr3iFLumpTCfAUWM1q5uoFCkIdArB_8XWAuoAihB1k12d1zyXB1iYxWO4H1yN7iGSLA-yYiUh3bNo6-sIDuL5esef22U5n45uNfQu7/s200/IMG_3834.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The the shikara ride. While in Kashmir can I miss it. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Mohsin. A friendship that goes back 26 years.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tujje. Mutton barbecue.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That is Peter the shikar walla (in white sun hat). Blind in his eyes by 90% he rows the boat remarkably with exact precision. Kashmir a place in the midst of a sad melancholy, characters like Peter keep the humor alive, no matter what the circumstances.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khushwant Singh at Delhi airport.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitE4pMuVoCCr2gaqqvXOMtdfKqhZWctHY1vtMOm6hrGi7-X6v_ydh56z-IsySdsVfxp2-Q2Pm3xXEwuf6iewBqUvQSoOvrCCijTZtdgIYr-hW0Tb0fco-x6k3M3aC7LWZT8vRfjavW7410/s1600/IMG_3877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitE4pMuVoCCr2gaqqvXOMtdfKqhZWctHY1vtMOm6hrGi7-X6v_ydh56z-IsySdsVfxp2-Q2Pm3xXEwuf6iewBqUvQSoOvrCCijTZtdgIYr-hW0Tb0fco-x6k3M3aC7LWZT8vRfjavW7410/s200/IMG_3877.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A picture of old times. Of happier times. They shall return by the Vitasta, where we wait.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mighty chinars lined up near Jhelum, visible from the overpass that connects Sumbal with Ganderbal. They find a mention in Ward Deny's Our Summer in the vale of Kashmir.</td></tr>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-21614098571189301992015-07-01T13:07:00.000+04:002015-08-20T13:20:18.927+04:00Nund Resh! Where art thou?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Sangram Dar owned a beautiful orchard that bore black berries, just when a prolonged summer had ripened them. A few yards away stood an apple orchard too, under the shade of whose trees Nund Resh would occasionally lean back and take rest. Here the air was the color of gardenias, and Resh had his fill of dales and cherry pickings.<br />
<br /><br />A sharp cliff below could tire young and stout; a path Nund Resh would take almost every day in his last years while coming from Ropawan [the saint spent seven years of his life at Ropawan]. A cool mountain breeze, sauntering steps of a time gone by, could still greet you if you care to stand there, in these times. If I was different I would try to describe the pastures. But I was snatched away beyond cosmic pastures, till I break. I’m neither me, nor anyone else; we both are guests. In some corner of my subconscious Mozart was playing. If I was a sleep, I would carry on sleeping in the blissful gardenias here.<br />
<br /><br />There is no convincing reason to give why Nund Resh was buried at the place where he was, after all, while he left this world. May be you will know. May be you won't. There is more to Nund Resh than just tying a prayer knot. If you care to know, that is.<br />
<br /><br />In another period, a stage in Nund Resh’s life when he was traveling extensively across the Valley; while he moved from Pattan to Hoonchipur — a small, quaint, beautiful village in Beerwah, surrounded by Fir trees. The mountains on the North lead up to Poonch and Reasi if further traversed along. Rising from the plain, shaded with trees and leaves, you’ll see why a person would want to live there forever, if you visit Hooshipur. Dawn, morning, mid-day, night all change with the changes in air. The air has a color of things there, while life whirs by as quiet as a murmur. During my recent visit to Kashmir, while I spent some evenings under the beautiful dim lights of Peer Zoo restaurant, over the banks of Jhelum; it stuck me to follow the Nund Resh’s path. To travel to all those villages and boondocks where the saint spread his message of a socio-religious upheaval that was to define Kashmir in the coming centuries. It could well be encouraged as travels of Nund Resh if people at the helm are interested. However, that is another story, and I really would not want to go into any state acting. Next we know some grotesque structure of cheap blue polythene built in these important places that Nund Resh visited, which by the dint of some divine intervention as Samuel Jackson spurned in Pulp Fiction: are more or less untouched till now, by the mad consumerism race that has engulfed our whole city- the eye soring glass wares, that could give styes in the proportions of 1892 Cholera.<br />
<br /><br />While Nund Resh was at the fringes of the village Hooshipur, he saw a group of girls lined up in a girdle cutting grass. As is with most of Nund Resh’s sayings, he drove a metaphoric parallel to this daily mundane chore. Thus the saint spoke;<br />
<br />Why thou cut the grass, O ladies?<br />
Why thou strike sickle to the grass?<br />
Why not thou think of the next world?<br />
You have to repay there!<br />
<br />One of girls replied:<br />
<br />Not scattering salt are we, O father,<br />
For which we may the effects to bear,<br />
With staff in hand, thou art killing at<br />
So strange thy words sound.<br />
<br /><br />So powerful was the reply of the peasant girl, that Nund Resh immediately took her in his Reshi order. The woman later turned into a famous Saint-es famous by the name Sham Ded. She lies buried and the shrine is revered by the local villages in and around the whole area.<br />
<br /><br />Perhaps, the most intriguing part of Nund Resh’s life is his association with Lal Ded. While common folk has left no stone unturned to give a direction that could mould this relationship of divinity, yet it still owes most of its grip through folklore. This is largely because Nund Resh’s hagiography was written only 200 years after his death. We relied on oral vernacular for a long period of time, unfortunately. If we spread our observation across the world, we find a similar relationship between two mighty Sufis: Mevlana Rumi and Shams Tabrazi, in the plains of Anatolia, around 150 years before Nund Resh and Lal Ded met. In truth the strong shivaite order was passed onto the Sufi order, while both scoffed at the external exhibition of religious practices. The emphasis's relied on internal cleansing, giving rise to a unique religio-cultural composition, that saw equal respect given by both Muslims and Hindus to Nund Resh and Lal Ded. Lal Ded is bestowed with respected titles like Arifa, Maryam-i-Makhani by the Muslim Sufis. This is vindicated by Shaikh Ul Alam himself:<br />
<br />That Lalla of Padampur,<br />
Who had drunk the nectar.<br />
She was an avatar of ours,<br />
O God, give me the same spiritual power.<br />
<br /><br />It isn’t like 14th century Kashmir was a place inhibited by all virtuous. In fact the malevolence and bitterness was so spiteful, that Nund Resh was forced to come out of his confinement in Gophabal (Kaimoh), and travel to nook and corner of Kashmir, spreading his love and try to put an end to the greed and hostility that was hollowing people inside.<br />
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While, I heard a first account story of one friend, walking through the maze of people at Regal chowk, so many of them- faces: sad and sombre, I looked for our Nund. Where art thou?<br />
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-60545864747015048692015-06-30T18:21:00.000+04:002015-10-25T11:03:36.083+04:00Kashmir and Delhi: Summer of 2015- I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The large verandas overlooking the garden, where many state dignitaries were hosted by the erudite Panditji.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhM0Zv6c-AX6XbdZsL4KR_K2ZQgWEihcVTeWhWEzNZED6E2YecRf4AIMYm1I2vQoDcppc7omRl1RyH5rVE9V6uX-JBrcZq7rPDtoKNe5dFyq6bVRrOZ4aGQw2yDkxDbub0XpNcDBvsv0d8/s1600/IMG_2884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhM0Zv6c-AX6XbdZsL4KR_K2ZQgWEihcVTeWhWEzNZED6E2YecRf4AIMYm1I2vQoDcppc7omRl1RyH5rVE9V6uX-JBrcZq7rPDtoKNe5dFyq6bVRrOZ4aGQw2yDkxDbub0XpNcDBvsv0d8/s200/IMG_2884.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nehru's study.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuG7C4bB4sVCCorK6Tyn4qFooB-Mh3ste2CppmWQC_oPoTHk4HUSZN4wyP0iVDBzuldaJVFOZfOvp8ENt8jCdrrSLLAe9pwLJfgcpfcTJ3iNR9tmo-DhWOYNR3y-1AfZoXqCucaqJce9o/s1600/IMG_2885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuG7C4bB4sVCCorK6Tyn4qFooB-Mh3ste2CppmWQC_oPoTHk4HUSZN4wyP0iVDBzuldaJVFOZfOvp8ENt8jCdrrSLLAe9pwLJfgcpfcTJ3iNR9tmo-DhWOYNR3y-1AfZoXqCucaqJce9o/s200/IMG_2885.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">God knows what those books are.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2tlWCbpHvrbxtFZa2Pus8zkRxTJ0KcFyPeF1Mv-PrihwPUo6km61WfPCyUurlrqO3CFmoSZMUFrr5liK6UsBwwD8d4KJ7j5t9rjX3oXeFPgo43-jIzlN_RCDp_YO0TC-QhtIg6p61mA4/s1600/IMG_2886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2tlWCbpHvrbxtFZa2Pus8zkRxTJ0KcFyPeF1Mv-PrihwPUo6km61WfPCyUurlrqO3CFmoSZMUFrr5liK6UsBwwD8d4KJ7j5t9rjX3oXeFPgo43-jIzlN_RCDp_YO0TC-QhtIg6p61mA4/s200/IMG_2886.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucg66FrLtklnQbj63pPkO_vtY06gIq_E-oHERPHOlhCYw2MmZhuII5hLiLNNsBWNQLXGudVr6ThKF3VH3ifBHnvLHerV_L72aEdKpMSTDW_PRpqtIjYcRLtMc4pTgAuN4DpbBtIUSQfhh/s1600/IMG_2887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucg66FrLtklnQbj63pPkO_vtY06gIq_E-oHERPHOlhCYw2MmZhuII5hLiLNNsBWNQLXGudVr6ThKF3VH3ifBHnvLHerV_L72aEdKpMSTDW_PRpqtIjYcRLtMc4pTgAuN4DpbBtIUSQfhh/s200/IMG_2887.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lYtXSuGRCK-p4QJIoCR21d79GJS_L9w9TRHnY0GUGu602pjkWYfLl17V82I2vHtRZjJY8mEOAWuwK565J3HSKdJyeTsPNtOPTobK7wADe9WBsvrME08qeCJWd26rdF8bPM8SAlif1Wum/s1600/IMG_2899.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lYtXSuGRCK-p4QJIoCR21d79GJS_L9w9TRHnY0GUGu602pjkWYfLl17V82I2vHtRZjJY8mEOAWuwK565J3HSKdJyeTsPNtOPTobK7wADe9WBsvrME08qeCJWd26rdF8bPM8SAlif1Wum/s200/IMG_2899.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The moronic pose.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoyEwyfWYD-M4WmEpQ3uk1Cj6vCo7PbgmjfaSmL9RCJTCtyn09Tql86F1lj_0YVuUM4oPDJRhwMIVy_aV__dPhAe2JaL16O9BSEzOlW_fmljXgGhw3fkivgTpFezToOyXVUpprGZmtyDh/s1600/IMG_2902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitoyEwyfWYD-M4WmEpQ3uk1Cj6vCo7PbgmjfaSmL9RCJTCtyn09Tql86F1lj_0YVuUM4oPDJRhwMIVy_aV__dPhAe2JaL16O9BSEzOlW_fmljXgGhw3fkivgTpFezToOyXVUpprGZmtyDh/s200/IMG_2902.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As I say it often. Want to love Delhi? Live in Chanakyapuri and read Khushwant Singh.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxEqkejZpyiybF2ZMDzyvm1tlpsrOUH4eu5uHXIPoHqFHQakExT8x-v94pDxXHyoa1MRBR3G1oVoo8fKx8JwsMc2fppvXEF8KnjxGjFBG3giYTd7t22fuIQ81DBRF_8hpQXI_skPbUpJ6/s1600/IMG_2843.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxEqkejZpyiybF2ZMDzyvm1tlpsrOUH4eu5uHXIPoHqFHQakExT8x-v94pDxXHyoa1MRBR3G1oVoo8fKx8JwsMc2fppvXEF8KnjxGjFBG3giYTd7t22fuIQ81DBRF_8hpQXI_skPbUpJ6/s200/IMG_2843.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teen Murti Bhavan. I hopped into a Meeru cab one lazy Delhi day, and spent an entire afternoon here at Panditji's official residence. </td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc01AxOAiUE2IExul06VeXdVIQOtbrwSNtCkli4HCkXms-EBS_UrBAvfEAGoNgXwi7nDIYvPR8EeRU_mse0lOsU35dUk3dgii6m6XNQZNAmTcVzPHdTHEfr1Kl_EkL1oJteCX-QENGewa4/s1600/IMG_2840.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc01AxOAiUE2IExul06VeXdVIQOtbrwSNtCkli4HCkXms-EBS_UrBAvfEAGoNgXwi7nDIYvPR8EeRU_mse0lOsU35dUk3dgii6m6XNQZNAmTcVzPHdTHEfr1Kl_EkL1oJteCX-QENGewa4/s200/IMG_2840.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Kashmir house, Chanakyapuri. </td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTreugQPJ7ugTT6i4MjOP9lyPXIkq9hW9AW9MV_FTW4za5CvDUzYSesKpIzl-jg6lXg9_hYuInQogHBPD7t0DNdlhVRRfYGQbVFAqvcThBid3h47fzzGgH_zbo9iCZiW_O3Zz8FxvM4qe/s1600/IMG_2839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTreugQPJ7ugTT6i4MjOP9lyPXIkq9hW9AW9MV_FTW4za5CvDUzYSesKpIzl-jg6lXg9_hYuInQogHBPD7t0DNdlhVRRfYGQbVFAqvcThBid3h47fzzGgH_zbo9iCZiW_O3Zz8FxvM4qe/s200/IMG_2839.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So here they are: books on Che. Early days of his revolution in Cuba and Bolivia. Riveting read.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiMNLGdouDKtkiYD9z97XmZ9ngZUjzzCu3znqw4a6YuRcnmQSeNzy85XmtuonhHjYioOZZLkabIbKRq2dj0nusrHaJM9Bf4MSCCiZImT_mXndcKjj1I1s0Z_ZFM50ByE1GbUmNb0PuDig5/s1600/IMG_2828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiMNLGdouDKtkiYD9z97XmZ9ngZUjzzCu3znqw4a6YuRcnmQSeNzy85XmtuonhHjYioOZZLkabIbKRq2dj0nusrHaJM9Bf4MSCCiZImT_mXndcKjj1I1s0Z_ZFM50ByE1GbUmNb0PuDig5/s200/IMG_2828.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the oldest bookstores in Khan Market- Bahri Sons. Any old timer Delhi walla will know about this shop. </td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcmYVv0Bky-XaP_siEJnZjqcwq6spJQm1yE2A6QEsZYS2FYt8rgM9iCG70-i8-DPRmxHFZn5hGWGu9aT_6Qbl7-CsN6DJ1IGh3z_8TL8fwiOi0cAZtoFhgPnzlHKNiKRtMYhb59IYSl2Wl/s1600/IMG_2824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcmYVv0Bky-XaP_siEJnZjqcwq6spJQm1yE2A6QEsZYS2FYt8rgM9iCG70-i8-DPRmxHFZn5hGWGu9aT_6Qbl7-CsN6DJ1IGh3z_8TL8fwiOi0cAZtoFhgPnzlHKNiKRtMYhb59IYSl2Wl/s200/IMG_2824.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Khan Market. Came to pick up books on Che.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWqOMbRRWuMbdAQWR4JJgYvAE726AsOrZeDgYGYckbb9rZpLbBAfTcsYy1BeOLE9dux8udbM7qfDEjr5GtPdqv2UurS6MVlxL_lhSlIaS-4Fx0Zfy3slLNCuaNnt-_IycNKXwxBGTLbMG2/s1600/IMG_2818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWqOMbRRWuMbdAQWR4JJgYvAE726AsOrZeDgYGYckbb9rZpLbBAfTcsYy1BeOLE9dux8udbM7qfDEjr5GtPdqv2UurS6MVlxL_lhSlIaS-4Fx0Zfy3slLNCuaNnt-_IycNKXwxBGTLbMG2/s200/IMG_2818.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yadavji the auto walla. He is from Ayodhya, the battle ground of contention between Muslims and Hindus. I asked him whom did he vote in elections. AAP he replied in Delhi; Congress in assembly elections. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8xNAzq61iT5mHxhPuPmpJ__0x-fmtOFD9G3uCwALeH5QXsq93e_KT4HG_XcaV8M1O2pYAgDJJmdWjiKhjlfvNg6yH4c766-nne9_tlpLxUnLlCQu2sn13sPkEJ9nct1l9kjwe6JZrf8_/s1600/IMG_2815.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8xNAzq61iT5mHxhPuPmpJ__0x-fmtOFD9G3uCwALeH5QXsq93e_KT4HG_XcaV8M1O2pYAgDJJmdWjiKhjlfvNg6yH4c766-nne9_tlpLxUnLlCQu2sn13sPkEJ9nct1l9kjwe6JZrf8_/s200/IMG_2815.jpg" title="HJ" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A dog tired first day in Delhi. Quick hop into a auto, that drove me to restaurant in Hauz Khaus. 500 INR for this veg thali. 185 bucks for the salt lassi.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNN1EVM3DnxlVRN8JLmNb1fFX5RJpGJQ1Gx7aoYY84QqmpwXzLNxTNAMBUrUxn2AkcEPs83-pS0AuIA-Em4Ds8CIqe4JDa93S3dAPw0asdkCmuET9O3lvJibWTjN7-olXIDKHFClMrr1Xg/s1600/IMG_2844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNN1EVM3DnxlVRN8JLmNb1fFX5RJpGJQ1Gx7aoYY84QqmpwXzLNxTNAMBUrUxn2AkcEPs83-pS0AuIA-Em4Ds8CIqe4JDa93S3dAPw0asdkCmuET9O3lvJibWTjN7-olXIDKHFClMrr1Xg/s200/IMG_2844.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teen Murti Bhavan.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBSre_TIJlYab56m9kb3hUFjKq0mMViQIF6hgEBvN1ATd4_-K2D7LC_mzmVKb-h6fTu21430FxqyHxcFfVdZ1_B5NypP-zc9TY7EY1M2J2AoOezipQwZ8VuWWdzkWhvPpF56Q_f4IzgiJ/s1600/IMG_2847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBSre_TIJlYab56m9kb3hUFjKq0mMViQIF6hgEBvN1ATd4_-K2D7LC_mzmVKb-h6fTu21430FxqyHxcFfVdZ1_B5NypP-zc9TY7EY1M2J2AoOezipQwZ8VuWWdzkWhvPpF56Q_f4IzgiJ/s200/IMG_2847.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sprawling lawns, where Pandit Nehru would have taken many morning walks, dissecting India's future foreign policy.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirWtna9sCDHiDFt67ZWwoiBhQED755pL3c6i69sqvducwY2xj0aWufvA9y_NvGtpiSucx6psKygmfkwNWSQ9yNWMzHkohHAvY7ShyphenhyphenMTWcBUbeTQ8VdyUg_QNoj0uD2NGtV-w-2RAGgFxtu/s1600/IMG_2851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirWtna9sCDHiDFt67ZWwoiBhQED755pL3c6i69sqvducwY2xj0aWufvA9y_NvGtpiSucx6psKygmfkwNWSQ9yNWMzHkohHAvY7ShyphenhyphenMTWcBUbeTQ8VdyUg_QNoj0uD2NGtV-w-2RAGgFxtu/s200/IMG_2851.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRKaH2atOzdLURDfxnkMYLq90WOyHWJZFUWEudYN4JQXBCciY8ATJuCj-_66ZthhcovcXYivPYYW7cldv6pzdy_cphma4_66wGqT3h1982IrIJq60760QwKzV3-T5Uak8_8wJB6YUlGW0w/s1600/IMG_2857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRKaH2atOzdLURDfxnkMYLq90WOyHWJZFUWEudYN4JQXBCciY8ATJuCj-_66ZthhcovcXYivPYYW7cldv6pzdy_cphma4_66wGqT3h1982IrIJq60760QwKzV3-T5Uak8_8wJB6YUlGW0w/s200/IMG_2857.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5yDQ7uE1AF6VhVGsMNvIZZz1NnNmPXlOw3F09tjwLK1D__IlyQKFsKmJnim0CwVp-UpfiLUKDGLuSf93SOhL3wtTYHq0keDMf7cjjtCWhmg8Z9i7rz7uqWEngJMWdXxh-Jw-K10_9LaxO/s1600/IMG_2858.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5yDQ7uE1AF6VhVGsMNvIZZz1NnNmPXlOw3F09tjwLK1D__IlyQKFsKmJnim0CwVp-UpfiLUKDGLuSf93SOhL3wtTYHq0keDMf7cjjtCWhmg8Z9i7rz7uqWEngJMWdXxh-Jw-K10_9LaxO/s200/IMG_2858.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panditji's blue blooded lineage- from Kauls of Rainawari to Nehrus of Delhi.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sartre from Panditji's personal library. What his country has turned into the hands of Baniyas and selfie stupidity.<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The gallery of Tolstoys, Trostskys, Raja Ram Mohan Roys, Tagores. </td></tr>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7840609967642868166.post-12010660763225447682015-06-30T15:17:00.001+04:002015-06-30T15:17:50.120+04:00My little boy.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Amongst many things that being a parent teaches you, I think the most overriding one is the fact how you suddenly make sense of all what your parents would tell you.<br /><br /><i><b>Mye chukh veni tetoy yevaan nazre. Lokut</b></i>. A line every Koshur parent uses like a staple diet. If you thought we only have an overdose of batta (the thick local Koshur rice), then you are obviously wrong.<br /><br />Looking at Ahmed right now: playing, making noises- looks towards me; smiles and then runs. A world only he knows about. A world of his that I like noticing. The small details. His small joys.<br /><br />In some years he will be all grown up, and obviously would not remember any of this. However, for me he will always be this Ahmed. My little boy. <div>
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Fahimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10623117268411868000noreply@blogger.com0